


A Storybook Story

by Sabriel (the_one_a_m_writer)



Series: Princesses & Brides [1]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: ...gender, AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Catchphrases, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, I guess????, Slow Burn, The Princess Bride References, bhhhhh i just realized this fic is literally, chainmail too, conquering, did I mention plate armor, ill-advised flirting, mentions of piracy, plate armor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 34,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_a_m_writer/pseuds/Sabriel
Summary: Lady Adora Grayskull finds herself the prisoner of the Horde.(Or, that story Wesley tells about becoming Dread Pirate Roberts in the Princess Bride, but Catradora.)Updates Wednesdays and Saturdays.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: Princesses & Brides [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130156
Comments: 295
Kudos: 258





	1. THE LANDING OF HORDAK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to clarify: this is NOT set in any of our real-life time periods; it's a fantasy world and you're just going to have to take my in-story word about what you're supposed to assume.
> 
> Also, title is taken from "Storybook Love", the song which plays at the end credits of The Princess Bride.

**1 THE LANDING OF HORDAK**

The Horde comes for Manor Grayskull the day after Lady Adora Grayskull’s nineteenth birthday. 

Half an hour ago, the distinctive grey ships with their blood-red banners had been spotted through a spyglass. Adora had sent word through her lands as fast as possible, instructing people to flee with what they could carry. They haven’t had enough time at all; it takes fifteen minutes to get a message from the manor house across two hundred acres of land to the homesteads, for a start. 

Adora sets aside thoughts of the land and the people and focuses on her own time-sensitive task. She has on a summer gown and slippers already. It’s not often that she wears the diadem, but if there’s any time to wear the trappings of her rank, it’s now. She puts it on. The last thing is the silver sword on the mantle, which is dust-covered; she cleans it with a handkerchief and holds it in her hand, uncertain, feeling the grooves of the hilt and hoping against hope that she’s at least gripping it right. 

Then she walks out the door to the steps that overlook the small sailboat dock, where she’ll see the Horde ships soon enough. Once she’s set her feet, she plants the slim, decorative sword in the ground between them and crosses her hands on the hilt. 

With the time she has left as the Horde steamships burst forth from the horizon, she reinforces her nerve with the words of her mother, who’d died three years earlier and left Adora the title Lady Grayskull. _ The weight of the title is her duty to her land and her people. _ She is responsible for them, and for their wellbeing, as much as she can be. This place-- this title, and its meaning-- had been everything to late Lady Grayskull. 

Adora will do whatever it takes to allow her people time to flee the manor lands. She tries not to imagine what the consequences of her actions will likely be--

Hordak is not known for taking prisoners.

...

The steamships are impossibly large; they set their anchors some distance away from the dock, and smaller landing boats row in. Upon leaving their boats and advancing towards the manor, the landing party inadvertently destroys the chaparral plants that form the border between the beach and the land. They fan out around the manor, but don't march just yet. The last boat hits the dock, and Hordak himself steps out of it. Tall, imposing, robed in blue and white, and carrying a heavy sword that had clearly seen more action than Adora’s, he shakes the dock as he stomps up it. 

He moves like a man with all the time in the world. There are no guards standing behind Adora-- she is alone, framed and pitifully dwarfed by her own manor’s entrance. Once he is standing on the step below hers (and, yet, eye level with her), he says in horrible,  _ painful  _ growl, “Are you surrendering yourself to me, Lady Grayskull?”

“Grayskull Manor will not go without a fight,” Adora says, though her voice is thin. 

“Can you even use that sword, girl?” he growls, some semblance of a hideous laugh in his throat.

No. But Adora lifts it, and points it at Hordak’s chest. 

“Aren’t you a pretty, brave little thing.” 

She doesn’t say another word. 

“Am I to fight you for the manor and the lands?”

Still, Adora stands her ground. Every second Hordak deigns to talk to her is a second for one of the farmer-families to escape.

Hordak doesn’t seem concerned by the sword at his chest, so Adora dares to press forward those few inches, and--  _ oh--  _ the sword  _ tings _ off a metal chestplate somewhere beneath the blue cloth. 

“Are you done?” Hordak asks, and in a single move, brings his sword up and disarms Adora. He laughs, low and inhuman, and Adora doesn’t know what’s happened except for the reverberations of a shock through her sword-arm. The sword is riding out its clatters on the stone of the steps nearby, and Adora is defenseless. 

“Kneel,” Hordak growls. 

“No,” she protests. She’s dead already, so there’s no reason to play nice. 

“Maybe you misunderstood me,” Hordak says. He steps to Adora’s level, forcing her backward. “Kneel.” 

“No--” 

He shoves down on her head, and the gauntlets he is wearing add to the weight of the  _ stupid, why did she wear this _ diadem. Adora buckles. Her knees hit the stone  _ hard.  _

“Good.”

He beckons one of his soldiers over. “Tie her up and search the manor. If there’s anything funny, we can ask her about it.” 

Adora finds herself bound at the front of the manor, looking out over the Horde ships anchored in the bay, for an hour. 

She won’t cry. She looks to see if any of the wildflowers hadn’t been trampled by the Horde, and tries to take it all in. Her impending death is suddenly less theoretical; against her will, her thoughts begin to turn.

Adora might be Lady Grayskull, but dying here feels like an order, not a choice. It had been right-- hadn’t it?-- to sacrifice herself in this way. She wishes that she could have died when she still had dignity and certainty-- Hordak should have killed her when she pressed the point of her sword into his chest. If nothing else, she thinks wryly, this  _ is  _ one of her childhood fantasies come to life-- Adora defeating some evil force with some heroic act, preferably with a sword in her hand. Maybe Adora’s mother  _ had  _ been right to discourage such imaginative things. 

There’s a wildflower mashed into the stone of the steps, carried there by a soldier’s boot. Adora focuses on it and confronts her mortality in her last moments. 

...

The warning she gets of Hordak’s return is his unusually heavy stomping as he leaves the manor. Some soldiers jangle with the sum total of her wealth. Others carry every preserved item from her pantry. 

And then Hordak stops in front of her, and crouches to her level. His blue-gauntleted fingers force her to look at him. 

Forcing her voice not to tremble, Adora growls, “Make it quick if you have any mercy.”

He looks contemplative. His head tilts almost childishly. 

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been in lack of a personal assistant.” 

“What does that have to do with my death?”

“I think you’ll do nicely,” Hordak muses to the air. He unsheathes a mean, forearm-length blade-- far too large to be called a dagger-- and in one neat stroke, severs the ropes tying Adora’s legs. Adora can’t help her flinch. 

“Come, girl,” he says, and pulls her to her feet. “Tch.” He flicks the diadem from her brow; it clatters on the ground next to her decorative blade. 

Adora has no choice but to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some [art of Lady Grayskull!](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/626001309089316864/read-a-storybook-story-with-this-adora-on-ao3) (Link goes to my Tumblr post)
> 
> Shoutout to my beta and my other beta, both of whom made valuable contributions to this story, mostly of the nature of saying "WHY did you write THAT???" and forcing me to explain myself or change it.  
> I hope I actually managed to live up to the ~~word doc~~ of suggestions.
> 
> (This is version 2.0 of this chapter.)


	2. HORDE HOSPITALITY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> version 2.0 of this chapter!

**2 HORDE HOSPITALITY**

Adora is led back to the ship with her hands bound behind her. She stumbles her way into one of the rowboats, but can’t put her hand out for stability. Just as she’s sure she’s going to fall onto the hard wooden bench, Hordak vaults into the boat with practiced ease and catches her upper arm in one smooth motion. 

“Careful,” he says, and sits her down on the boat. 

The ride to the ship happens in absolute silence. Hordak seems content to lean against the side of the boat and let the soldiers accompanying him do all the work. Adora sits tall and stares him down. 

Like a coward, she thinks about escaping, and like a coward, she guesses she won’t make it with Hordak an arms-length away. 

She’s prodded up the ship’s ladder, and lifted--  _ how undignified--  _ the last few inches over the rail. Once on the ship, Hordak leaves Adora for a precious moment unhanded and by the railing; the distance to the water of the bay does not look so great. The only challenge is getting herself over the railing without use of her hands. 

_ Now.  _ She leans against the railing and pitches backwards as hard as she can. She digs her toes into the deck and pushes--

And Hordak grabs her by a fistful of her dress bodice and  _ yanks  _ forward, sending her stumbling and once again crashing to her knees. He crouches beside her. 

“How far do you think the distance to the shore is?”

“Close enough,” Adora says.

“Your hands were  _ bound,  _ Lady Grayskull. Were you going to swim without them?”

“Yes.” 

“That was folly, but maybe you knew that. I’m having you checked for weapons. Don’t turn out to be more trouble than your life is worth.”

He beckons to a nearby woman, and she drags Adora to her feet and keeps a vice-grip on her ropes. Once Hordak’s satisfied that Adora’s unable to escape again, he begins to walk away at a far cry from his showy stomp. More like a  _ saunter.  _

Just as he’s disappearing into the door off the deck, at odds with the stories and with the horrible guttural timbre of his voice, he says, “Get her water, and get her something for her knees if she needs it, hmm?”

The door slams behind him; Adora’s left at the mercy of the woman with the neat dreads and the undercut.

She receives water, but there is really nothing to do for her knees except to wait for the bruises to heal; she’s also taken into a room with a closed door and efficiently strip-searched. Luckily, her ropes have to be taken off as well. Unluckily, the woman is more than able to hold Adora regardless. Once this is done, and Adora deemed fit to start her new assistant job, apparently, she’s marched down the hall and deposited in the captain’s quarters where Hordak polishes his sword. 

“You can start by helping me remove my armor,” Hordak says. 

When Adora doesn't immediately move, Hordak says, “I could kill you instead.” He lifts the sword and twirls it for show, and once Adora is no longer impressed, sheathes it. 

“Shouldn’t you start with your helm?” Adora says, staying as far back as she can. 

“That’s Lord Hordak to you, girl."

“That’s Lady Grayskull to you,” Adora mutters under her breath. She thinks she’s been inaudible, but Hordak’s horrible, sick laugh sounds again. 

With considerable gravity, Hordak lifts his helm, and Adora--

Was  _ not  _ expecting this. 

Staring back at Adora is a  _ woman! _ She is around Adora’s age, with mismatched eyes-- one yellow, one blue-- and a wicked smirk. Her hair is knotted at the top of her head, but she shakes her head and it releases from its knot in an explosion, framing her face in a mass of curls. 

Adora's shock is, she knows, written all over her face. 

“What--” Hordak says, and oh, his-- her-- voice must have been modulated by the helm, because her voice is like  _ honey  _ after that horrible growl. “You thought I was some pasty, crusty old man?" 

Adora debates whether it would be rude to answer in the affirmative; Hordak does still have his sword, sheathed though it is. 

"Welcome to the ship, my Lady Grayskull,” Hordak says before she can decide. “Now that I'm more  _ inoffensive  _ to you, you will remove my armor."

With the threat of the Hordak’s nearby blade hanging over her head-- and the memory of the sword being wrenched from her hand-- Adora carefully brings her hands to Hordak’s armor. She works steadily, trying to figure out how the thing is put together, and Hordak points out what she should remove next and which clasps she’s missing. Each piece is immensely heavy, and Adora feels pitiful for hating the diadem for its weight. Once Hordak is in just her boots, canvas tunic and wool leggings, she sits down at her chair-- a plush, backless cushion-- and bids Adora help her remove the shoes. 

The shoes, Adora notices, are HUGE affairs. They, and the height of the helmet, are what had put Hordak at her eye level. Hordak stands, finally armorless, and she’s  _ shorter _ than Adora. 

“I am going to change into something more comfortable-- please take your leave. I request your presence at dinner tonight.” 

“Yes, Lord,” Adora agrees, both out of shocked respect for Hordak and out of fear for the dagger (the third different blade she’d seen Hordak wield) Hordak is now twirling in her palm. 

And... she can't help but be intrigued. 

...

Adora gets all of six feet away from Hordak’s quarters before she stops with no idea of where to go. 

She’s about to pick a direction and walk it when the same woman from before, with the dreads and the dark skin, pushes out of a nearby door. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demands, a hand going to a dagger sheathed at her hip. 

“You’re the Horde captor; I’d expect  _ you _ to tell me,” Adora says. 

“Would it kill you to say ‘I don’t know’?” the woman asks, and reaches for Adora’s wrist to drag her somewhere. “I’m assigning you a room.” 

The woman had demonstrated her considerable strength earlier when she manhandled Adora during the search. Adora has no desire to repeat that experience for what would prove to be a futile escape attempt, so she simply lengthens her stride to keep up with the woman’s pace. She’s taken down multiple hallways, and they leave the area that had had a rug; the woman’s boots make a racket against the metal floor. 

The woman shoves open one of the doors that form a dense line somewhere in the bowels of the ship, and it opens onto a tiny room with barely enough space for a bed. There is a wooden chest beneath the bed-- “If you owned anything at the moment, you’d put it in there--” and a mirror (metal, not glass) on the wall. 

Adora sits on the bed. The woman crosses her arms, thinking, then speaks again.

“As long as you’re here, I might as well tell you the rules,” the woman says. 

“There are rules?”

“Of course there are rules,  _ Lady.  _ First, you have to use ‘he’ when you talk about Hordak.” 

“So everyone knows she’s--” 

“What did I  _ just _ say? Christ, you’re dense.” 

“Sorry,” Adora says. “So, everyone knows he’s a woman?”

The woman shrugs. “He could probably wear the armor all the time, but he doesn’t want to. It’s unavoidable.” 

“It’s heavy armor.” 

“It’s damned heavy,” she agrees. Adora blinks a little at the profanity. She should probably get used to it-- she doubts the Fright Zone has the same manner of propriety as Brightmoon Kingdom. 

“Second rule, pull your weight. Especially on a ship; we don’t have time for useless princess-y types. Do you even know how to mop a floor,  _ your ladyship?” _

“Yes,” Adora says, even though she’s never done so in her life. 

“Yeah, right. I’ll hand you a mop later and see how you do.”

There’s a break, and no more words seem to be forthcoming. 

“Are those the only rules?”

“What more do you need?”

Despite the woman’s earlier jab, Adora still won’t answer  _ I don’t know. _ “Who do I answer to?” she asks instead. 

“You answer to Hordak, and me.” 

“What’s your title? And name; I haven’t received that either.”

“I’m Lonnie; I’m the Head Force Captain of the Horde.  _ You’ll  _ call me ‘sir’, or Force Captain Lonnie.”

“Okay. Sir.” 

“Good. I’ll be back in five minutes with new clothes for you.”

Adora is left in peace. 

The first thing she does is look for anything to help her situation along, but the room, aside from her three furnishings (bed, mirror, chest), is indeed completely empty.

The chest actually does contain something-- a heavy, warm blanket and a hairbrush. Adora is just reaching for it when there’s a knock at her door. After a beat, Lonnie enters the room with a bundle for Adora.

“Why do I need new clothes? Sir?”

“Hordak requested you wear these instead of your dress. I agree. Can’t mop in a dress.” 

She leaves again, and Adora picks through the bundle she’s just been handed. It’s loose tan trousers that cinch at the waist and an equally loose white shirt. Both are men’s items-- or perhaps androgynous, she thinks, as Lonnie was wearing something similar. There are also brown shoes, far less delicate than her own slippers. 

She’s loath to comply with any of Hordak’s “requests,” but this one... helpfully aligns with her own interests. Lonnie is right; she’d have an easier time mopping a floor in pants, and she’s betting she’d have an easier time with her-- whatever she’s going to do, she’s not sure yet, but if it involves getting herself free it’s going to involve movement. 

She’s never worn either pants or shirt before, but once she puts them on, they’re not as hateful as she’d been... led to believe. Something falls onto the floor-- a purple hair-ribbon she hadn’t noticed before.

Well. 

As long as she’s wearing  _ pants.  _

She grabs the hairbrush and impulsively brushes all of her hair up, then ties it off into a ponytail. She’s never  _ not  _ had some hair framing her face before, regardless of her updo, and it makes her look-- 

Maybe a little less  _ wilty.  _

She kind of likes it. 

The shirt and pants are both loose enough to feel like a dress, and she’s worn much showier bodices than this thing whose collar lies at her throat. Like the one on the white dress, actually, the one laying on her floor. 

This? She thinks, picking it up. This, and a heavy golden headpiece,  _ those  _ were the choices I made in the name of confidence?

She crumples the dress into a ball and throws it into the chest. 

She tries the door, and finds it open, so she pushes out into the hallway--

There’s a soldier there, mean and scarred, holding a sticklike weapon of some sort. How convenient of him to be here. He says, “Aren’t you supposed to be in your room?”

“I wasn’t told to stay,” Adora says, and tries to walk off anyway. 

“I don’t know what my Lord thinks, but  _ I  _ don’t want no Brightmoon princess walking around unguarded,” the soldier says, and spits; he bundles Adora back into her room. 

Adora wonders if he  _ was _ being truthful about not having orders to guard her. 

Lonnie knocks on her door in another twenty minutes. 

“Hordak has requested you for dinner.” 

“Why?”

“To get to know you,” Lonnie says openly. “You’re new here, after all.” 

“So, I’ll be waiting on him? Refilling his wine and fetching more plates?”

“What?” Lonnie frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “I just said it was to get to know you.” 

“I’m a prisoner. Or-- or-- some kind of, I don’t know. Servant. Or a trophy, maybe.” 

“Maybe he took you in because he was tired of me complaining that helping him with his armor was far below my station,” Lonnie says. 

“There’s a guard outside my door,” Adora insists. 

At that, Lonnie frowns. “Is there. Well, you’ll be able to walk to the captain’s quarters. Now, go, and don’t keep him waiting.”

At Lonnie’s direction-- and with extra encouragement from Lonnie unsheathing the dagger-- Adora hurries off. 

Hordak is waiting in the main room of her quarters, and the table (a comfortable size for two) is set with plenty of food. Adora looks-- and notices some of her fruit preserves among the spread.

“Those belonged to Manor Grayskull!” Adora can’t help but say. 

Hordak laughs a honeyed laugh. “Sit down. Yes, they did. I thought it would mean you liked them. Are you offended by it?”

“I should be,” Adora responds. 

Adora sits and tugs her chair to the table, then, not waiting for Hordak, pulls some meat and bread onto her plate. “Force Captain Lonnie told me she’d helped you with your armor before.”

“And complained every time,” Hordak agrees. “Tedious. And it’s an upset to my command to have to take her on every campaign I go on.”

“She said she’s the Head Force Captain. Does she know how to use a sword, too?”

“Does that surprise you?”

Yes, it does. Adora shakes her head  _ no _ regardless. 

Hordak chuckles. “That outfit looks good on you.” 

Adora swallows before speaking. “Did you give it to me so you could stare?”

“No, I gave it to you so you could move. What were you doing, trying to fight me with a dress and a decorative sword?”

“You could tell,” Adora mutters, embarrassed. 

“What, that you’d never swung a sword in your life? Don’t be an idiot, Lady Grayskull.” 

“You’re being too nice to me.” 

“Are you serious? I just called you an idiot.” 

“First of all, you said ‘don’t be an idiot’-- second, the clothes, the food, and sparing my life-- what is your angle? What do you hope to get out of me?”

“Your assistance,” Hordak says. “Maybe one day, your acceptance. Perhaps your respect. After that, the loyalty I receive from my soldiers. Your devotion, maybe?”

“I would  _ never _ be loyal to a conqueror,” Adora growls. “You have delusions, Lady Hordak.” 

“LORD Hordak,” Hordak corrects at a near yell, slamming her hand on the table so the silver rattles. She makes no other move, though; Adora recovers from her frozen shock and resummons her likely foolhardy confidence. 

Adora takes another bite of her dinner and scoffs. “Did I hit a nerve? And here I was getting along so well with my Lord Captor.”

“I’m not sure I would say such things if I were in your position,” Hordak says conversationally. 

“You could have killed me on the steps of the Grayskull manor. You did not. I’m on borrowed time. Loyalty,” Adora says, and pushes her plate away from her. “You revealed your hand, I think. You don’t want me to stay a prisoner. You want my loyalty.” 

“Maybe I think I could make something out of you, if you’re able to keep yourself in line, my dear.” 

“I’m not your dear.” 

“My Lady Grayskull.” 

“Better.” 

“As for  _ you--  _ well. You may call me Hordak-- you may call me conqueror, or captor, or  _ damn you,  _ but you do not call me Lady.”

“Very well, Lord  _ damn you.”  _

Hordak’s smirk is back in full force-- or maybe it’s a simple, innocent grin? Adora’s voice had only shaken a  _ little bit  _ over the profanity, and she’s very proud of herself. 

“Good. Very good, Lady Grayskull.” 

...

Once dinner is finished-- tensely, and quietly, after the resolution of their respective titles-- Hordak asks her to clean up the table and take food back to the meager kitchen. Then, she’s sent to give a written message to the ship’s captain and a few other equally menial tasks that have her scrambling up and down the ship’s length and meeting half the crew. It’s comforting to know there was, in fact, a personal assistant’s role to be filled, however slight. 

Not that she’s complacent. 

The ship is strangely open to her, and she starts to think that her earlier doorway guard was, simply, acting on his own. On one errand task, she purposefully detours herself as close to the coal-burning furnace room as she can find. She doesn’t know what she’ll do-- sabotage? The trouble with such a thing is that she, too, is stuck on this vessel in the open water, and it’s one thing to accept her death, and another to cause it. 

When she gets to the door that hums with the power of the furnaces that must be behind it, she doesn’t linger. Maybe she’ll have the nerve tomorrow. 

Once she’s done with all that excitement, Hordak walks her to her room. “I’m locking you in, you understand. We don’t typically post a night watch inside the soldiers’ quarters, and I can’t have you attempting a midnight assassination.” 

“Of course,” Adora says. So perhaps her travels weren’t as free as she’d thought, if Hordak’s only locking her in now. Or maybe, Hordak trusts any one of his soldiers-- or even the crew manning the furnaces-- to overpower her if they’re awake. 

Hordak stands in the door frame as Adora unties her hair ribbon. Adora waits for her final word-- she looks almost like she’s preparing a statement. 

“Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning,” she says with an easy smile.

And then the door is shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some [art of Hordak](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/624536465053024256/a-storybook-story-is-up-on-ao3-featuring-this) that I did. It's on my tumblr.


	3. SURPRISINGLY, SHE LIVES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone and welcome back to the next chapter of "last chapter I told you she might die in the morning: the story"
> 
> Fun Writing Lore: the only curse word I use in this story is 'damn', so the T rating is because of all the 'kill'ing. 
> 
> (But, since I rated it T, I get to say fuck in the notes.)

**3 SURPRISINGLY, SHE LIVES**

Adora wakes after a surprisingly restful night. 

Something about the smile had made the death threat insincere. Or maybe, after an hour kneeling on her steps believing she was taking her last breaths, nothing could faze her anymore. 

Hordak fetches her at dawn and unlocks the door before pocketing the key. She says, “I’ve decided not to kill you just yet-- I have a task for you.” 

“Good morning to you, too, Lord Hordak.” 

Hordak laughs and beckons her to the main dining room, which is lined with wooden benches and wooden tables and filled with soldiers. “You’ll eat breakfast here.”

“Are you not eating with us, Lord?” Adora asks quietly, trying to stay below the din of the room. She’s never actually dined below her station before--  _ propriety _ was too important for the late Lady Grayskull-- and she hates to admit it, but if Hordak dines with her, she’ll feel more secure. 

“Why not?” Hordak says, and moves toward the end of one of the tables. Soldiers give way for her and Adora both. Hordak slings her legs over one of the benches, and Adora sits as well, her hands automatically coming up to sweep a nonexistent skirt into place. 

“Ah, how are you liking the pants, Adora?”

“They’re fine,” she says, somewhat embarrassed. 

There’s a plate brought for both of them, and they begin to eat. There’s fruit and bread and some sort of hot mush, which is apparently called oatmeal. Adora isn’t sure about this one.

“Of course, not all breakfasts are so decadent,” Hordak tells her. “We’ve just conquered a manor, though.”

Adora is shocked into silence-- maybe culture-shock of realizing that  _ this  _ plain meal is considered decadence, or maybe of the harsh reminder that she’s now without a home-- so she simply tastes the oatmeal. It’s okay. Hordak puts raisins on hers, and then offers raisins to Adora, and that makes it better. 

Adora continues her silence throughout breakfast, but-- and perhaps  _ this  _ one is owed to her own suddenly unhelpful extrovertedness-- can’t help but respond when Hordak attempts to engage her in conversation afterward. She ends up chronologizing her orchard’s growth, ending with how the Horde ended up with so much of  _ her _ fresh fruit. 

“Ah. Good thing we left it well intact, then,” Hordak says. “How do you think it will do in our absence?”

“It would appreciate a farmer,” Adora says. 

“Hmm. Just one?”

“Maybe three.” For all that she’d lightly staffed the manor house itself, the orchard had gotten the best and most constant care. 

“Consider it done.” 

Adora is shocked again, and this time for entirely opposite reasons. 

...

The work of the day starts early for Hordak, it seems. Adora’s used to this kind of schedule; her farmers had worked the half-days while the sun was still in the process of heating up the farmlands, and had gone back to their own tasks after lunch, and she’d kept the same hours, even if hers were spent planning the planting and harvest rather than performing them. 

Now, Adora’s starting to learn the layout of the ship. The main dining room is a floor above her own little room, and one floor above that is Hordak, Lonnie, and perhaps a few other important officers. The furnace room is on her floor, but on the other side of the ship. 

Hordak leads her to the place they’d had dinner last night-- her own personal workroom-- but rather than laying out food, she sits Adora at the table but takes her own seat at a writing desk. A beat after sitting down, she stands up again somewhat abruptly, fishes two boxes of papers out from under the desk, and thumps them on the table in front of Adora. 

Adora receives one stack of papers with numbers on them, one stack of blanks, and a pen and ink. Hordak says, “I need each sheet copied three times.” 

“Hmm,” Adora says, already planning on blotching ink all over the originals, because just because she thinks Hordak has a few redeeming qualities doesn’t mean she’s  _ complacent. _

“And before you think of making a mistake-- these are supply requisition sheets for a few villages under my command. Should I send the wrong amount-- well-- starvation is a hard way to go, isn’t it?”

Adora stares down at the sheets. 

“Get to  _ work; _ it’s going to take you hours as it is.” 

Adora picks up the pen and ink and starts on the first sheet, copying the lines of words numbers as she stalls for what to do. Maddeningly, the sheets are written in some kind of shorthand. She recognizes hints of the ancient written language that predated the Horde’s existence. Numbers on various lines pair up, and she thinks one might be a “from” and one might be a “to”, but as to which is which-- she has no idea.

She  _ could  _ make a mistake, she thinks, and what might happen? A few villages would be a little hungrier? She, of all people, knows how small of a plot of land can be wholly self-sustaining; not once in the three winters of her governance had she ever had to so much as trade with any of the other manors of the surrounding countryside.

Irate and invigorated, and wondering how badly managed the Horde is that their villages need supply requisitioning, she jots down ‘500’ instead of ‘50’ and switches two of the shorthand scrawls. 

(She has no idea what she’s just done. She hopes it hurts.)

But Hordak suddenly chooses  _ that  _ moment to walk over to Adora’s table. 

“I heard unusually loud penmanship,” she says. Oh. Well, then. The latest of Adora’s numbers, the two mistakes, are certainly displaying evidence of her sudden change in heart; the ink is blotchy. 

Hordak picks up only the page Adora is working on and inspects it. “What am I supposed to do with this mess? Redo it.”

“The whole page?”

“Is there any other way to redo ink?” Hordak asks. “Please, get to work.” 

Hordak returns to her desk; Adora dips her pen again and pulls out a fresh page. She starts anew, but begins switching numbers and unfamiliar words in earnest; after a while, she stops trying so hard to even use words and numbers that had existed on the previous page and simply makes sure it shares the same general shape. At a glance, the papers still look identical.

She gets three hours into the task, and they stop for lunch. Adora is quiet throughout lunch, not trusting herself not to give away her deception. 

“How was your work?” Hordak asks politely. 

“Fine,” Adora says shortly. 

“Are your wrists hurting?”

“I’m fine,” Adora repeats, even though they  _ were  _ and she’d been shaking them every fifteen minutes for the past hour. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at those papers.” 

Adora, wary, pushes the stack over to Hordak, who thumbs through them swiftly. For a second, Adora thinks that’ll be the end of that, and she’s gotten away--

Hordak puts two papers side by side, two papers that should match but don’t, and says, “Don’t make me do this, Lady Grayskull.”

Adora says nothing. 

“Nothing you’re doing right now has any effect on the war or the soldiers, if that was your plan, you know. I’d made sure of that, even though I’d hoped you wouldn’t try. Instead-- you’d starve--” Hordak checks the paper closely-- “Cereus, a desert town whose only edible crop is prickly pear?”

Adora feels a cold stab through her heart. So there  _ could  _ be real people starved by her actions.

“I thought you had a good heart. Maybe you still do. Prove yourself to me; redo it all.”

“Yes, Lord Captor,” Adora says angrily. 

“Clean up from lunch and you can start again once you’re done,” Hordak says, and frowns disapprovingly. 

...

Adora sits back down in front of her stacks of paper and, once more, prepares the pen with ink. 

Hordak is right, of course; she  _ doesn’t  _ want to starve the villages, not if it won’t truly harm the Horde army at all. 

She thinks instead about leaving; maybe she’ll go back to the furnace-room and do what she hadn’t had the courage to do yesterday-- open the door. But when she stands, Hordak moves  _ fast--  _ catlike in her reflexes-- and stands in front of the door, her hand on the handle.

“Where were you looking to go, Lady Grayskull?”

“Just to stretch.”

“Unfortunately, I need those papers done. You can stretch here, then resume work.”

So, that’s how it is. Honestly, Adora had expected a threat by now-- she supposes the everpresent dagger or blade or sword sheathed at Hordak’s hip counts as one. 

So she sits, and begins to copy, this time faithfully. She’s not sure how much further Hordak’s goodwill will extend-- and these are sure to be inspected closely. 

...

It’s just before dinner that she finishes the last sheet, and she puts everything down and shakes her hands out vigorously. 

“Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Hordak takes the papers and, while Adora watches, spends an achingly long time ensuring the quality of the copy. At last, she returns them to Adora. “And thank you for proving me right.”

“As if I had a choice.”

“Hm. I suppose. One copy of each in each of these four boxes.” 

Hordak hands Adora four boxes with white labels.

This task takes Adora much less time. One box is labeled ‘Record-keeping’, one is ‘Send to Fright Zone’, one is ‘Send to associated city/outpost’, and one is ‘Send to Dryl for data-collection’. So this wasn’t just busywork. 

Hordak appears to still be busy. Adora wonders what she can do until dinnertime. Back at Manor Grayskull, she’d read, or maybe go for a walk on the grounds. Neither of those options are available to her.

She stands and prepares to leave the room anyway. 

“Where are you going?” Hordak asks. 

“I’m going out onto the deck to watch the ocean,” she lies. 

“Don’t go for a swim; It’s much farther now to shore,” Hordak says. “Go.”

Adora runs down the stairs to the furnace room. The door is warm and hums with energy. She twists the handle and shoves inside with no plan, but then again, she’d need to have seen a fire room before to have a plan. 

It’s populated with several people, not all men, all working to stoke the flames; they raise their heads at Adora’s entry. 

“Soldiers ain’t allowed in the fire room unless they’re cleared,” one says.

“I’d-- I’d like to learn. How to... run the engine.”

The person laughs. “Then tell your Force Captain and they’ll see about reassigning you once we’re back at the Fright Zone.”

Adora nods and leaves. Rebuffed, there’s really only one thing she can do-- 

Go to the deck to watch the ocean, like she’d told Hordak.

  
  


Saltwater spits in her face over and over again, but it’s kind of refreshing. Adora’s  _ angry-- _ angry at Hordak for making her write all day, and angry at herself for failing  _ twice  _ to have an impact on her captors, and her without so much as a rope on her wrists. 

Angry, too, at the fact that she’s here at all. How noble to trade one life for two hundred; but why did it have to be her  _ own? _

And, she thinks, while she’s staring into the unforgiving waves, angry at her mother for leaving her to be, at nineteen, Brightmoon’s west coast’s first line of defense. No, actually, not even at her mother. She’s angry at  _ Brightmoon.  _ The war is five years underway, and though it had started in the south, the Horde has been pushing north for over a year. Why  _ had  _ her manor been left without so much as a small army outpost nearby?

_ Hordak  _ cares for her little desert villages, Adora thinks, and then suddenly realizes she’s just  _ compared the Horde favorably to Brightmoon,  _ and is angry about that too.

She calms down eventually and gets over her currently useless anger. 

There are many soldiers around here, bustling from place to place, doing important work. Adora catches one by the rail, looking less busy. 

“Hi--” 

“Hi, Lady.” 

“How many days until we make landfall at the Fright Zone?”

“Two, I think,” he says. “Well, one night, two days, if that makes any sense. Actually, two nights, because we still got tonight.” 

“Sure.”

“And that’s not countin’ today, mind you. If we counted today, it’d be--” 

“I get it, thank you.” 

He spits over the railing. “Good waves today.” 

“I don’t know much about them.”

“Well, y’see how they’re all small? That’s your first sign, Lady.”

It’s ma’am, actually, Adora thinks, and then, “You might as well call me Adora. I’m not much of a Lady anymore.” 

“All right then, Adora,” the soldier says. 

She doesn’t deserve the title, she justifies; not after losing her lands and manor and people to the Horde. 

Or maybe-- or maybe the release of the pressure of her title is freeing. Like pulling her hair back from her face, she’s no longer hiding behind finery. For better or for worse, she’s just Adora now. 

...

She dines with Hordak, which is much the same as yesterday, less her faux-pas. (She’s starting to realize that while  _ her  _ sense of propriety is based on formal titles and such, the Horde has an entirely different, but just as  _ strong _ sense of propriety based on... based on...)

“So, I heard you’ve asked the soldiers to call you Adora.” 

“I’m not much of a Lady anymore,” Adora repeats. 

(...based on choice?)

“Do you want a different title? I could come up with something, you know.”

“Local Horde Captive Adora?”

Hordak laughs. 

“I don’t really want a title,” Adora says. 

“How much did you like governing that manor?” Hordak asks curiously. 

The answer is  _ not at all.  _ It was lonely, especially after her mother’s death, with no-one her equal and no-one her friend. She didn’t love the paperwork, either, and struggled to focus for the long hours required to do her record-keeping alone in silence. The only freedom she felt was going on walks from manor-house to orchard to homesteads and back, and even then, she’d wanted to  _ run--  _ or ride-- or learn to use her stupid decorative blade-- all activities forbidden to her by the  _ propriety  _ nascent to her title as Lady. 

Maybe  _ that’s _ why she is-- daresay--  _ appreciating _ her time as a Horde captive, more than she should be. 

“It was my duty,” Adora says instead. “I love my people.” 

“You loved them enough to die for them.” 

“I did.”

“You’re very brave,” Hordak says, and gently places her hand on Adora’s. “I admire that.” 

Adora shoves Hordak’s hand away. 

...

As she’s locking Adora in her room that night, again Hordak stands in the doorway and says, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

It’s already familiar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> version 2.0 of this chapter :)


	4. THE FRIGHT ZONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> version 2.0 of this chapter!

**4 THE FRIGHT ZONE**

The next day is much the same as the previous. Adora is given a menial task that will yet mean innocent lives if she messes up, and it takes her through lunch. She pokes around on the ship and happens across where all the soldiers are resting and, apparently, gambling. 

It’s just like pirate stories she’d heard when she was young. Swashbucklers, allowed to do what they wanted whenever they wanted, playing card games on a ship after a successful mission. 

_ Except this is the Horde, _ Adora reminds herself,  _ not some childhood fantasy. A nation, not a single ship of outlaws. Conquerors. And real. Real enough to have wanted me dead.  _

There’s a rowdy game underway on two different tables, and little slips of paper in the pot in the center. Adora wanders by and picks one up curiously. 

“A day of cleaning bathrooms-- you’re betting chores?”

The soldiers nod at her before turning studiously back to their game. The other table is betting with coins, which is closer to Adora’s former expectations.

Lonnie catches her shortly after and makes good on her threat to hand Adora a mop, and Adora finds that mopping requires a shocking amount of strength. After she’s done one (relatively large) room, Lonnie finds her again-- as if having predicted her exhaustion-- and says, “How was it?”

“How did I do?” Adora asks, gesturing at the floor and leaning on the mop handle to catch her breath. 

“Not bad for a former Lady. Should I have someone else take over now?”

“Thank you. Sir.” 

It’s the last night before they dock at the capital city-- the Fright Zone. As Adora and Hordak have dinner together, Hordak says, “You know-- maybe we should get you learning a few more physical skills.”

“What?”

“Train you. Work on your strength.” 

“Shouldn’t you--  _ not  _ train your captive?” 

“To be honest, I think it’ll be three weeks before you’d even be able to hold a dagger strong enough to stab me, and in the meantime, you’ll actually be able to mop a floor.” 

“So Force Captain Lonnie told you.”

“I know everything that’s going on in this ship, Adora. Anyway, tomorrow you can exercise with me in the morning.”

Adora acknowledges with a nod.

“Is the exercise something you  _ want  _ to do?” Hordak asks. 

Adora wonders if this is a question Hordak actually wants an honest answer to. “I’m your prisoner,” she says instead. “I don’t have a choice.” 

Hordak frowns. “I was hoping we’d get to calling you an assistant rather than a prisoner before long. And I do want your answer.” 

“I’ll do the exercise,” Adora says. She takes a final bite of her dinner and starts clearing things from the table to disinvite conversation, which seems to work; after she’s done, Hordak lets her leave.

She is, quite unfortunately, warming up to Hordak-- just as Hordak had hoped. If only the Lord would stop  _ giving her things! _

...

Later that night, Hordak locks her in the room and says, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

The lock clinks in the door; Adora remembers that Hordak had, in fact, promised an activity in the morning. The nightly threat is losing any semblance it had of promise. 

...

The morning exercises are stretches, which doesn’t look like exercise to Adora, but they’re  _ shockingly  _ painful. 

Adora’s body protests through each one. (But she’ll persevere, and Hordak will see when she  _ does  _ get the strength to hold a dagger.)

“That’s what you get for not exercising your whole life,” Hordak teases. “Brightmoon Kingdom truly does their Ladies dirty by preventing them from moving.” 

Adora doesn’t say anything, too busy trying to hold herself in a lunge position while continuing to breathe. 

Next to her, Hordak says, “You can stand up-- don’t do this next one,” and maneuvers herself into a plank. She holds the position for a minute, then two, while Adora watches, and comes out of it barely breathless. 

“I could-- do that,” Adora bluffs. 

“Yeah, you wanna try right now?”

(Seven seconds. That’s how long Adora holds out. She crashes to the deck with a groan, and Hordak laughs, “That wasn’t even good form!”)

Next up is another sorting and filing task, then lunch, then joining Hordak (and a fair amount of soldiers) on the deck as they watch the ship dock. 

The sight of land on the horizon is unusual after four days at sea, but Adora adjusts soon enough. She thinks the distance is playing tricks on her eyes for a moment, but after a while, they draw close enough that Adora can see that-- no-- the land is indeed completely flat, barren, and building-free as far as the eye can see. The ground is cracked and bone-dry; the port they’re drawing into is shored up with stone. Adora can’t imagine what such a shoreline would look like, anyway. 

Is this the Fright Zone? Moreover, is  _ this  _ why Brightmoon is struggling to find the city itself? No one else seems to think that they’re approaching the wrong stretch of land, so Adora waits with, she admits, bated breath. 

Then, as they draw near, the ground  _ yawns,  _ a massive hole sliding into place. The inside is metal-lined and manufactured; the entrance is flush with the perfectly flat land. People-- soldiers-- pour out of the mouth, awaiting the ship’s arrival. Nearby, a part of what Adora previously thought was stone shoring falls away, and the ship will, apparently, have its own place to disappear once it is no longer in use. 

There’s a plank lowered, and they disembark-- Hordak straight into the waiting arms of an  _ enormously _ buff woman wearing an alarmingly red outfit. 

“Wildcat!” the woman cries. “How did the mission on Grayskull go?”

Hordak reaches out for Adora, and pulls her towards the woman. “Scorpia, meet the former Lady Grayskull, Adora. Adora, meet my second-in-command, Scorpia.” 

“A pleasure to meet you!” Scorpia cries, and pumps Adora’s hand. “I have to say, this is unusual. Very unusual indeed. I’m sure you’ll do great here.” 

Adora has heard stories of Hordak’s second-in-command-- the woman cloaked in shadow, who could move so quickly it was like magic, and who terrified the troops into submission.

This... is not her. 

This can’t be her. 

Scorpia is greeting soldiers by name as they file off the ship, and saves another hug for Lonnie. “I missed you! I can’t believe it’s only been a week.”

“Missed you too, Scorpia. How was the Fright Zone while we were all away?” Lonnie asks. 

“Oh, you know it practically runs itself. I barely have to do a thing. I’m glad Hordak’s back, though. And you, too, miss Head Captain.”

Hordak strides through soldiers milling on the dock, yelling “Snap to it! Get this ship unloaded before sundown!” 

There’s a chorus of “Aye, sir!”s and “Yes, Lord!”s and the soldiers rouse themselves back to activity. 

“Come along, Adora.” 

Adora follows Hordak into the tunnel, and finds the interior unsurprisingly windowless and strikingly metal. Even the lights lining the walls seem to be, somehow, fire-free. Adora takes it all in ravenously. 

Though she isn’t wearing a gown or slippers anymore, she still feels out of place-- she has no muscle and no callouses save the one from holding a pen. She’s also walking somewhat weakly from the morning’s stretches. Can anyone tell?

She gets stares. Of course they can. 

Hordak’s living quarters in the Fright Zone are large-- fit for two people, if the bureaus (one a slate grey and blended well with the decor, one with inorganic purple designs painted on it) are anything to go by. There’s a connected bathroom. 

“Who’s...” Adora starts, glancing between the bureaus and the king bed in the room’s center. “Who else lives here?”

“No one. Why, do you want to?”

“No!” Adora shouts somewhat abruptly. Hordak cackles and slings the bag off her shoulder onto the floor. 

“Your room will be down the hall. It belonged to a Force Captain who’s no longer... well, let’s say it can be yours.”

Adora doesn’t know how she feels about sleeping in a  _ deadman’s  _ room. 

“I’ll have someone dust it off and furnish it up, and then you can stay in it tonight. By the way, your gown and slippers have been brought in with my clothing, if you cared.” 

“Yes, I would like them  _ back,  _ thank you.”

“So I assumed. Would you like a tour of the command center?”

...

For the first time, Hordak doesn’t let Adora get more than a pace away from her. This is understandable-- the command center is full of strange, fantastic technology, and it seems like any button press could have catastrophic consequences. Adora’s urge to throw as many levers as she can in revenge for her manor clearly doesn’t go unaccounted for. 

After the tour, and dinner, and Hordak asking what Adora typically occupies herself with-- it’s books-- and promising to send some to her room “because we can’t have you getting bored and deciding to wander”, they walk back to the former Force Captain’s room that Adora is to occupy. 

“What was his name?”

“Her name was Catra,” Hordak says almost fondly. “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... surprise, everyone, Hordak's not a pirate? He's the leader of the country Horde. 
> 
> Today's Writing Lore is that I did as much of a plank as I could easily do after a HIIT workout and with my back bowed, and it was 7 seconds, and that's where I got that number.


	5. CATRA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> version 2.0 of this chapter :)

**5 CATRA**

Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe not. The day Adora wakes in the Fright Zone, Hordak has her (after another hellish round of morning stretches) confirming that past records of Force Captains are matching current records of Force Captains, and checking disparities against a list of known changes. 

There is no mention of Force Captain Catra anywhere, in any of the records. 

Adora would immediately start a quest for knowledge about the mysterious Force Captain, but now that they’re outside the confines of a ship, she’s kept on something of a tighter leash. 

Adora starts to think that while on the ship, for all that she was focused on her status as a prisoner of the Horde, she also might have gotten too comfortable with the little freedoms she was being afforded. The hair tie, and the lack of title, and the opportunity to improve her strength; she’d  _ enjoyed  _ all of those. She shouldn’t have. She should forget about those and remember that while she’s in the Fright Zone, she’s bound to Hordak’s will. 

Because now-- now that it’s dangerous to have a prisoner wandering free-- it comes crashing down around her. On each of three menial errands Hordak sends her on, she is gently nudged away from any heavy or sharp objects she comes across. There are eyes on her, she senses, as if every soldier in the Fright Zone has been asked to keep an eye on the new Brightmoon capture. She’s almost certain she really  _ does  _ have a guard on her tail. 

She tries to push forth with her careful categorization of the Fright Zone’s interior regardless, but she’s so uncomfortable in this space that she’s not sure how much she remembers. 

When she’s sent to the foundry and accidentally spends fifteen minutes in quiet wonder before remembering to return, Hordak immediately says, “What took you so long?”

“I was watching the metallurgists,” Adora says. “I’d never seen anything like that before.” 

“Ah. I was just making sure you didn’t get... lost.” 

Hordak had never  _ timed  _ one of Adora’s errands before, but now she clearly has; it’s aggravating, in a way being on the ship hadn’t been. Adora seethes quietly, and wonders if there will be an opportunity to take what’s proving to be a long timeline to her eventual triumph-- or escape, she’s not sure-- and shorten it. 

...

That night, Hordak requests Adora draw her a bath, and Adora does, and can’t help but scheme. Hordak must be vulnerable-- wet and swordless as she is. Perhaps, while Hordak was bathing, Adora could go get one of those daggers that are stashed all over Hordak’s room-- perhaps, she could sneak back in, and--

She opens one of the drawers of the grey bureau, and to her satisfaction, finds a dagger in a black leather sheath. She draws it carefully, and gently presses her finger to the point. It’s sharp. 

One hand fits around it comfortably. She walks to the bathroom door, and puts her back against it, bracingly, listening to various quiet splashes from within. 

Her hand trembles. She wraps the other around it, and that one trembles too; in fact, her entire body is shaking like an autumn leaf. She could-- open the door-- swiftly, in one motion-- bring the dagger down--

_ But what is she doing?  _

Adora is already rethinking this momentary fit. As angry as she’d been, she’d clearly gotten hasty. She’d got caught up again in that same stupid fantasy Lady Grayskull had tried to talk out of her-- her, a storybook hero by her own making (ha! as if she’d ever manage it). She  _ can’t  _ hold a dagger  _ steady;  _ Hordak was right about that much. 

Besides, what would she do once she’d managed to kill Hordak?  _ If _ she’d managed to kill Hordak? She’d be found out and killed, naturally. She can’t escape the Fright Zone; there is, as far as she knows, one entrance, and she doesn’t know the path back to it. They’d taken a few too many turns. And, on the rare, rare chance that she, undetected, found the entrance to the underground network and escaped and ended up on a ship going the four days back to Brightmoon Kingdom, what then? Would she just go back to governing the manor, after the most exciting few days she’s ever had in her life?

_ That’s not the point-- _

She tightens her grip on the dagger, and is trying to convince herself that  _ Regardless, I must try  _ is indeed a good thought to be having right now, when a knock on the bedroom door startles Adora into dropping her dagger. Scorpia’s voice shouts, “Wildcat? Adora? Would you like to join me for a game of cards?”

There’s an abrupt splash from within the bathroom, and Adora hastily kicks the dagger under the grey bureau. Hordak pushes open the door-- 

She’s  _ nude.  _

Adora turns away as quickly as she can. 

“Aww, are you embarrassed of a little nudity? Adora, that’s precious.” 

Adora covers her face and stares firmly at her hands. There’s a light touch-- a hand on her shoulder-- Adora holds her breath. 

“I won’t make you be nude in front of me, but you don’t have to turn away, you know. I came out here by my own choice.” 

“I’ll stay turned away, thank you,” Adora says, muffled by her hands. 

A laugh like honey sounds, and then Adora senses that the presence of another body has left her; the bureau drawer opens, then closes. 

“You can look. I’m decent.” 

Adora turns back around. “What-- that’s not  _ decent!”  _

Hordak is dressed in tight-fitting pants that end at her knee, and a compressive top that leaves her stomach bare. “Sure it is. C’mon, let’s go to Scorpia’s room.” 

(It’s not a question.)

Adora, against her will, learns the rules to a simple card game, and, also against her will, doesn’t  _ hate  _ it. It’s fairly late at night when they stop, and they only stop because Hordak yawns so widely her jaw makes a crackling sound, at which point Scorpia says, “Get some  _ sleep,  _ Wildcat!”

“Why do you call--” Adora starts, and then catches herself, and says, “Why do you call him that?”

Hordak nods at Adora’s catch. 

“Oh, you know, because his name--” Scorpia manages, and then she’s suddenly  _ pounced  _ upon by Hordak, who covers her mouth with her hand. 

“Scorpia,” she warns. 

“Oh, sorry!”

“And you’re right, I should get some rest. You both should too. Adora, come on.” 

Adora stands obediently and follows Hordak to her room. Hordak stands in the doorway and says, “You know, maybe you should try to be a little more quiet when you’re picking up and dropping my daggers.” 

Adora’s blood turns to ice. She can’t speak. She’s glad, almost, for the previous nightly reminders of her mortality, because it makes the prospect of being killed for her attempted assassination that much less daunting. 

“Just so you know, my soldiers are fiercely loyal to me. First and foremost among them is Scorpia.” 

Adora stares into Hordak’s mismatched eyes.

“And killing me wouldn’t even do any good. I think you heard Scorpia say it-- the Fright Zone practically runs itself. A new leader would take my place.”

“Why are you  _ saying  _ all these things?”

“Oh, just so that there won’t be a next attempt,” Hordak says. “I’m surprised it took this long for the first attempt, quite frankly.” 

“Then why  _ take me prisoner?” _

“I told you, I needed a personal assistant. Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

It’s late. Adora tries to corral her thoughts. She’d tried, today, to seize that opportunity Hordak had so carelessly handed her, but-- had Hordak known that she wasn’t capable?

Okay, so she isn’t an assassin, and maybe she’ll never be an assassin. She realizes that now. Maybe it had even come down to the way it hadn’t seemed  _ fair  _ to stab Hordak helpless in the bath, because Hordak had, against all odds, showed her similar courtesy before. 

But, she’s still here. Hordak’s latest sparing of her life doesn’t make them  _ friends,  _ not by any stretch of the imagination. Adora won’t make her goal to kill Hordak, but she  _ will  _ find out what secret Hordak’s hiding. 

(There is one. She’s sure there’s more to this story.)

It’ll mean, she imagines, playing by Hordak’s rules. She will reinvent herself as a good little assistant. She won’t cause trouble. She’ll copy things without mistake, and take exactly as long on her errands as she’s supposed to. She’ll even offer her help when she can. She’s not  _ stupid--  _ and she has three years of governance under her belt; surely she can get Hordak to at least use her as a sounding board. She’ll gain Hordak’s trust, and she’ll learn more and more about the Fright Zone, and the Horde, and Hordak herself. 

She’ll learn why the rumors differ so vastly from reality-- and she’ll learn why she’s not dead yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Writing Lore is that this story was honestly meant to be a 15 page one-shot break from a longer story I'm writing, and now it's the longest story I've ever finished. I'll-- probably-- get back to writing said other story, but I have to be done with editing this one first.


	6. A TOAST TO THE MEMORY OF LADY GRAYSKULL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost titled "A TOAST IN MEMORIA" because in my Google Docs outline, the title was truncated for being too long for the side bar. So yes! This is the longest chapter... title.

**6 A TOAST TO THE MEMORY OF LADY GRAYSKULL**

Hordak wakes her up yawning, and her curls are messy and frizzy. She’s wearing last night’s scandalous outfit, and her feet are equally bare, even though the floor must be freezing. 

“You should brush your hair,” Adora blurts, because she’s apparently never been able to hold her tongue when it matters. Just when she’d decided to be a good little Horde captive, too. 

“Just for that, you can help,” Hordak says, and pads away silently on the metal floor. Adora, naturally, follows.

Back in her room, Hordak settles into the benchlike chair, so similar to hers on the ship, and wordlessly hands Adora a hairbrush. Her hair is incredibly unruly; it takes Adora fifteen minutes and a bottle of some curious gel Hordak handed her to get it under control. Soon enough, it’s back to its normal only  _ slightly _ wild state; Hordak herself is not so maintained. 

“Did you get any sleep?” Adora asks, unable to help her concern. 

“Did you?” counters Hordak, which is a weak response at best. “Adora, go ask the kitchens for coffee for the both of us.” 

Adora goes and returns with two cups of-- she’s heard of coffee, but it was too  _ common _ for Manor Grayskull. She hands one to Hordak, who drinks heedless of the temperature. Adora tries hers. 

“Ugh!” 

“It’s an acquired taste.” 

Adora delicately puts her cup down on the bureau. “Why didn’t you sleep in, if you were tired?”

“You get up at dawn, and I have your key, dummy.” 

“You don’t need--” 

“This isn’t going to be a regular occurrence, princess, I promise. I just had to deal with something at about three a.m., that’s all.” 

“What happened?”

“A runner came back with news from one of the villages to the south of the Fright Zone. They were attacked in the middle of the night.” 

“Oh! Is everyone okay?”

Her concern is genuine; her expression of it is the manufactured part. 

“Yes. It was defended well. I just wonder what made it a target.”

Adora shrugs. The most she’d known about the war effort was that the Horde was coming, and Manor Grayskull was theorized to be on Brightmoon’s closest border to the Fright Zone. 

“It’s done with now. How do you feel about helping me puzzle out some numbers? I’m too tired to think straight.” 

“What kind of numbers?”

“You take the population values, and this is the land type, which just adjusts it based on which of these ratings-- here’s what percent of their own food they can produce-- and then you get  _ this _ number  _ here,  _ which tells you how much food the town needs for a month, see?” Hordak says, jabbing at one of the example sheets. “Then, you take the climate, and that’ll tell you how much they need in spring versus fall and stuff. Then you take this projected total, and see if it’ll cover all of these towns with some surplus.” 

“Sure,” Adora says. She’d done this before. On a small scale, and localized within one land type and climate, but she’d done this before. Kind of. 

Regardless, she sits down with her papers. And  _ this  _ time, she tries very hard to get them right the first time.

...

At lunchtime, Adora’s perhaps halfway through her task. 

“Hey-- we didn’t stretch this morning!” she says suddenly, already missing her daily exercise. 

“Oh, you’re right. Well, no time like the present,” Hordak says, reaching her arms over her head. “Maybe it’ll wake me up. Ready?”

Adora nods, and they begin their stretches.

“You’re improving,” Hordak says, some five minutes into the exercise. 

“It hasn’t been that long!” 

“Even so.”

“Thanks,” Adora says. “Are you naturally extra flexible, or will I eventually catch up to you?”

Hordak looks up from where she’s doubled over, legs straight but palms pressing into the floor. 

“Time will tell, darling.”

...

Time does tell; Adora finally touches her toes the next day, and suddenly realizes that she  _ has  _ been improving. 

In the few days following her assassination attempt, Adora works less on copying and more on calculating and planning. Some of her work is almost... fun. She grows comfortable in the halls of the Horde, and she grows comfortable next to Hordak, who hasn’t so much as twitched her hand toward a blade ever since Adora decided to play nice. 

She’s also moved forward in her investigation... in a sense. She  _ had  _ looked up Force Captain Catra in every record the Horde had of Force Captains, but had found nothing, which was a point of data, in a way. As to why she wasn’t dead-- she was finding more and more evidence that pointed to Hordak... simply... not being the evil, ruthless monster the stories indicated. It seemed like the whole thing might simply be a facade for Hordak to don in order to get his final edge in battle through intimidation.

Perhaps a week later, they’re settling down for lunch; some of Adora’s fruit preserves are among the spread, and she eagerly partakes. 

“How are those numbers coming along?” Hordak asks. Adora has been working on supply requisitions-- again-- but this time for soldiers, not villages.

“Slowly, but it’s more interesting than copying papers. Why do you have so many remote outposts?”

“I’m just that good,” Hordak says. 

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t believe me? I conquered Manor Grayskull without a single loss of life!”

Adora, already falling for her own facsimile of compliance, laughs despite herself. As soon as she realizes she’s laughing at her own awful failing, she shuts up and schools her face back to neutral. 

But it wasn’t really her failure, she reasons. No one could have expected her-- too young to be in command of the manor and all its lands, let alone driving back an invasion-- to have done better. She allowed all her people to escape, and she’s even still alive. 

That  _ is  _ a nice thought. 

She regains her smile. “You let Lady Grayskull waltz around your Fright Zone without so much as handcuffs.” 

“Uh, no, I let  _ Adora _ walk around in my home and hers,” Hordak says, peering up at Adora from between her legs. “I think Lady Grayskull’s last act was successfully allowing her people to flee. A noble ending, don’t you think?”

Huh. Her  _ home.  _ Adora wouldn’t go that far-- not yet, even though Hordak’s correct in that she’s no longer claiming the now deserted manor. Well, her allegiance will have to stay nebulous for now. In the meantime--

Adora frowns. “Brightmoon thinks I’m dead, don’t they?”

“Adora, Adora. The Horde doesn’t take prisoners.” 

“Of course--” 

And in that respect, there’s something tugging at the back of her mind.

...

“To Lady Grayskull’s memory,” Hordak says that night at dinner, raising her glass. 

Adora says, compulsively, “And to Force Captain Catra.” 

Hordak spits out her wine. “What?!”

“She’s not in any of the records,” Adora explains. “I even looked at the ones you didn’t give me the other day. And you didn’t give an answer as to why she doesn’t exist anymore. I guessed she was something of a... construct.” 

“Ha! Aren’t you smart, Adora,” Hordak says almost admiringly. “I picked a good personal assistant.” 

“You aren’t going to elaborate?”

“What for?” Hordak asks, infuriatingly blasé, and Adora can get no more on that topic. 

...

That night, Hordak lingers in the doorway and looks around the room. “What have you thought so far?”

“About the room?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s not a lot of character from its previous owner, you know.”

“I  _ did  _ have it cleaned.”

“Of course.” 

“Goodnight, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

Adora crosses her arms behind her head and stares at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep without thinking about how she hadn’t spent a moment of the day bored. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Version 2.0 of this chapter!


	7. HOW LACKING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been exactly a week, and I'm back, babey.  
> I added like net 4,500 words to this story, and most are in chapters that have already been published. That said, I ALSO tried to make it so we were in the same fundamental location by chapter 7; you don't have to reread.

**7 HOW LACKING**

A week manages to go by without anything much of note happening. Adora still stretches in the morning with Hordak, and she still looks for ways to involve herself deeper into the inner workings of the Fright Zone. Though she tells herself that it’s to move forward with her half-baked plan, often it’s truly because she prefers it to copying papers or, God forbid, mopping. 

She makes friends with Scorpia and Lonnie, and then with Kyle and Rogelio, and then more and more soldiers and Force Captains until most that run in her same circles know her name (and she theirs). She gets to know the Fright Zone ever better. Once, on a whim, she forces Hordak to take her to the foundry so she can watch the metallurgists, and then Hordak takes her to the forge and the room of huge power looms and the industrial kitchen. It’s all stunning, even as  _ metal _ and  _ inorganic _ and  _ machine _ as it is.

It’s been many days since Adora got to the Fright Zone, and she barely feels like a prisoner anymore. Hordak laughs with her, and she’s allowed to tease her back. Hordak has even genuinely consulted her knowledge on a supplies question. 

Hordak still says that same, silly threat as she locks the door, but tonight, Adora didn’t quite hear the key turn. Hm. 

She contemplates getting out of bed to check the door.

This is what she’d strived for, isn’t it? This is the realization of her goal. Hordak trusts her. She should be elated, and more to the point, she should be slipping out the door immediately. 

But, she finds-- the line has blurred between  _ pretending  _ to be helpful and friendly and  _ genuinely  _ being helpful and friendly. She thinks back to a foot-race she’d been convinced to run against Kyle. Was  _ that  _ to gain Hordak’s trust? No; it had no bearing on their relationship. She’d run the race because she was relishing her newfound strength and her newfound friendship. (And she’d won, which she was proud of.)

What is she missing about Manor Grayskull, anyway? She’s sure she must be missing  _ something.  _ There must be  _ some  _ draw for her to go back. That  _ is  _ why she’s still scheming. But--

It’s not her dead mother, nor her father (who Adora had never known, not even by a gravestone). It’s not her friends; she’d had none. The gowns? Not really; pants are proving comfortable. The command? That was boring and harsh. Her freedom to roam the grounds, perhaps, but, well, she has that here-- and daresay she, more interesting sights; there’s only so much chaparral and small yellow wildflower one can find intriguing. 

Maybe it’s fruit. Yeah, fruit, she decides, grasping for something,  _ anything,  _ to keep her tethered to her ideal of herself. 

She falls asleep without checking the door. 

...

“There’s not as much fruit in the Fright Zone as there was back home,” Adora complains to Hordak. “Really, you barely even have it once a day!” 

“There’s not as much water here,” Hordak explains. “We don’t want to waste the water growing pears and apples. Or the energy transporting them from  _ so  _ far away. Would you like to try some of our offerings?”

“I suppose.” 

“I’ll have them brought for lunch. My apologies, I didn’t realise how you were used to fruit.”

There’s a persimmon, sliced; a bowl of pomegranate seeds; loquats; dragonfruit; and prickly pear. Adora’s tried none but pomegranate before. The persimmon is good; it has a kick to it. She reaches for a loquat and is about to dig her nails in like she would an orange when Hordak pops the whole thing in her mouth. 

“Is the skin edible?!”

“Technically, skin’s edible on all citrus. Loquats just taste better with it.” 

The fruit is delicious-- wonderfully sweet and cool. 

And with the last of the fruit on the plate goes Adora’s final ties to Manor Grayskull. 

...

Two mornings later, Adora finds herself having forgotten to wash either of her outfits. She could put on yesterday’s, and no one would care, or--

She actually owns four outfits. Her usual flowy garb, and the other. The gown. The tight clothes.

The gown. The tight clothes. 

She pulls on the pants that hug her legs.

It’s unusual. Adora feels like she can’t walk for a bit, but after striding around her room, she figures it’s at least easier than heeled shoes. 

She puts on the tight shirt as well, and pulls her hair up into its tie. She could pass for a Horde soldier. 

There’s only so much modesty one can unreasonably retain, she thinks. Besides, she’s seen Hordak and Scorpia and Lonnie all in far less clothes than she’d ever expected to see. She wonders if people will even notice her change of pace. 

Hordak will come by soon. Adora stops. Actually, maybe she should take it slow. Just the pants, with a flowy shirt? Yesterday’s doesn’t smell that bad--

The key clinks in her door’s keyhole, and Hordak knocks. “Yes, coming!” Adora says, and opens it. Too late now. 

Hordak definitely notices. She takes in Adora’s outfit slowly, and Adora tries to fight down her blush. 

“Well, that’s a good outfit for what I have planned. Now that you’re up to thirty seconds on the plank, how would you like to move on from just stretches?”

Adora would indeed. 

She’s taught squats, push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. Hordak goes through each one and corrects her form, and mentions what it’s for. Her thighs, her arms, her core, her heart.

“I need to exercise my heart?”

“It’s a muscle.” 

“It  _ is?!” _

Hordak gives her a somewhat incredulous frown. 

“What? Biology wasn’t part of my standard curriculum.” 

Hordak shakes her head. “Maybe it should have been!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some writing lore:  
> \--Manor Grayskull's climate is dry (as indicated literally only by the fact that the wild plant community is chaparral), so they DEFINITELY have to bring in water for the orchard.  
> \--The Fright Zone is literally nonarable; any fruit imports are from nearby, which is not nonarable but is fairly dry.  
> \--The fruits I chose by clicking on one singular google link after searching "drought tolerant fruits".  
> \--I've never eaten prickly pear, and I've never eaten fresh dragonfruit. I'm sure they're good.  
> and,  
> \--I thought my indulgences in this story were limited to unreasonable use of plate armor, but it turns out I care about dry climate vegetation too, which, you know what, I knew that. I knew that.


	8. A DOMINO EFFECT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday update!

**8 A DOMINO EFFECT**

“...sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

Adora stares at her ceiling. They hadn’t had a truly strenuous day; Hordak had just wanted to get rest before an early morning. 

She’s not tired. She slings her leg over the edge of the bed. 

Though she’d perused the few books Hordak had procured for her, Adora had never really spent time in this room. Maybe it’s time she looked at it. She starts an inspection, running her hands over the nicks and dents in the bureau. Were all left by Catra? Were some by another?

Adora bores of her investigation and drops down to attempt more push-ups (she can do five in a row, and she’s _very_ proud of herself), but as she does, she notices something odd about the floor. There are dents in it. And, they match to the spacing between posts of the bed. The bed was moved from one corner of the room to another. Why?

Curious, Adora pushes the bed back to its former location. It’s not as hard as she thought it would be.

She lays in the newly replaced bed and stares at the ceiling, which is the same. The wall in front of her is also largely similar. The bureau is seemingly in the same place as ever. 

She turns her head to the side. 

_There._

Tiny, tiny words, at eye-level to Adora. Tucked into the corner of the wall. 

_“I will kill Shadow Weaver”_ is crossed out, but carefully, to preserve the words behind the strike. Right below it, _“Shadow Weaver is dead.”_

...

“You look tired,” Hordak says. 

“Sleepless night.” 

“Why?” 

She has to know. “Something I... heard,” she lies. “A name. Shadow Weaver?”

Hordak _growls_ suddenly, a terrifying sound ripping from her throat. “She’s _dead._ Where did you hear that name?”

“I-- who was she?”

“She doesn’t matter. She’s dead. I made sure of it.” 

_I made sure of it._

Adora stands. 

Then she runs. 

...

The first place she thinks of hiding is the foundry. Though she’ll no doubt be spotted on the way there, she’s dressed like a soldier-- lucky, that-- and once inside, the huge machines and incredible noise will prevent her discovery. 

She runs and makes good on her decision. 

What will she do now? She can’t stay here forever. Eventually, she’ll need food, or eventually, she’ll be found. She still doesn’t know how to open that tunnel door out of the Fright Zone. 

She’ll end up back in Hordak’s clutches; she knows this with certainty. But for now, she’s run away. She’s angered her. Should she wait to be found in the foundry?

Should she continue on her way?

She gears up to run again. She could go to a bathroom-- fake sickness-- but there’s no reason for her not to have gone to a closer one. She could try and find a different exit? Claim she needed fresh air? Ladies in Brightmoon did that a lot, though it was _always_ a social ploy. 

She runs. 

The metallurgists call after her, but she doesn’t look back. She tries to get away from the center, and past anything she already knows. The hallways are all similar in design; do the colors mean anything?

The word ‘evacuation’ is printed on one wall. Good. Adora follows the sign. 

The corridor she’s in ends in a heavy door. On the door, it’s printed, “Emergency Exit. If opened, alarm will sound.” 

She’s trapped. She doesn’t want an alarm. 

There’s the sound of running footsteps outside her corridor, and then someone says, “I saw her disappear there.” 

“Good,” Hordak says. And she turns the corner. 

She is a ship’s length down from Adora, and her expression is terrifying. She advances slowly, presumably knowing Adora is trapped. 

There is nothing Adora can do. 

She waits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> If you haven't already, check out my edits of [Adora from chapter one](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/626001309089316864/read-a-storybook-story-with-this-adora-on-ao3) and [Catra from chapter two](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/624536465053024256/a-storybook-story-is-up-on-ao3-featuring-this) on my tumblr.


	9. THE KILLER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday!

**9 THE KILLER**

Hordak advances down the hallway, and Adora holds her ground. She doesn’t move. 

Slowly-- then slightly faster-- Hordak arrives in front of her. Her arms are crossed. Her expression is grim. 

“WHAT is the meaning of this?!” she thunders. 

“You-- killed--” 

“I am a CONQUEROR. You said so yourself. I  _ kill  _ all the  _ time,  _ Adora.” 

“In battle--” 

“Is that  _ different?” _

When Adora doesn’t immediately respond, Hordak hisses,  _ “Where did you hear that name?” _

Well. Let it never be said Adora isn’t brave; she stares into the murderer’s eyes while she’s trapped in a dead-end corridor and says, “I know who you are. You’re Catra.” 

“You.” Hordak takes a step closer, and unweaves her arms. “You found the writing in my room.” 

Adora nods. 

And she finds herself  _ hugged.  _

Catra-- this is  _ Catra--  _ is hugging her, for the briefest of moments, but tightly. Adora freezes. Catra lets go and steps back and says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have--Adora, I was  _ worried _ about you.”

_ “Why?” _ Adora gasps. There’s a lot of information to process. 

“That name--  _ she _ was a dangerous woman. She was... she was the previous second-in-command, and I think you’ve heard the stories. She was cunning and manipulative. She played mind games. She... she tortured, mentally and physically, anyone who disobeyed, and she was  _ far  _ too heavy-handed with the definition of ‘disobey’. That writing was there to remind me that when I was alone at night, the shadows in my room couldn’t be  _ her.”  _

“Oh...”

“To hear her name again-- for you to say you _ heard  _ it-- I feared for a moment that either she’d somehow survived my-- she didn’t survive, but the fear was there-- or that there’s been a resurgence of her terrifying campaign.” 

“I’m sorry. I should have told you my source,” Adora says, slowly, trying to get her mind to catch up. “I thought you would be mad about my knowing your name.” 

“About that? I could never. I expected it, you know. First, your first assassination attempt, next, you figure out my deep secret, which isn’t much of a secret, if you notice how Scorpia almost let it free a while ago.” 

Adora runs this new information about the second in command through her mind, trying to sort it into place. She must also reconcile  _ Catra  _ with the person she’d known as  _ Hordak  _ for weeks-- years, really, and that takes her a beat of time as well. (It’ll take more time than that, but she has at least successfully conflated the names.) Then, there’s the fact that Catra was worried  _ for  _ her, not coming for her blood; Adora backtracks on the thought that maybe Hordak was indeed as bloodthirsty as the stories say. Yes, she may have killed Shadow Weaver; it sounded like the woman deserved it. 

With all that going on, it’s  _ almost  _ justifiable how long it takes for her to say, “Oh--  _ Wild-CAT!”  _

“Yes, you’re very smart,” Catra says with an almost feline grin. 

Adora groans. 

“So how did you become Hordak? Did you kill the old Hordak and take his place? You can’t be the original.”

“No, I’m not the original,” Catra agrees. “But that’s a story for another day.”

“Why  _ not _ today?” 

“Do I have your assistance?”

“Yes; you’ve had it from the start.” 

“Your acceptance? Your respect?”

“Tenuously,” Adora says, lifting her chin. 

“That’s why. Your loyalty?”

“I still belong to Brightmoon Kingdom.” 

“Then, yes, it’s a story for another day.” 

...

That night, Catra says, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

Facing her, Adora quietly responds, “Good night, Catra.”

The door closes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After NINE chapters, I'm now allowed to use Catra's name.   
> I almost wrote this reveal earlier (chapter, like, three) so I wouldn't have to do that, but clearly that didn't work out.


	10. MANEUVERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday! i have yet another one-shot in the works that I'll post on sunday-- and though the premise is different, I gave it to my beta and he instantly called me out on some plot parallels. I write the same story a hundred ways I guess

**10 MANEUVERS**

Catra had demanded her assistance, and got it out of fear, but that’s not really the case anymore, is it? It’s been too long; Adora has started to enjoy her work. 

But then again, she’s been avoiding anything regarding weapons and armor and the movement of troops. She hadn’t wanted to know about the war Catra was busy conducting while Adora lived in enemy territory. 

Now, she wants to know more. She wants the story. Catra had told her, outright, that the story would require her respect, and Adora can’t respect Catra while she’s still choosing to baselessly hate the Horde war effort. 

Maybe it’s time to pull back the curtain on that particular aspect of Fright Zone leadership. 

...

Catra is working on _maneuvers._ It’s a process that could take two people, but Catra is doing both jobs; she’s reading data on a screen and applying it to a different screen and it would clearly be easier if there was someone manipulating the first screen and reading off the data. 

“I could help,” Adora says. 

“I thought you were avoiding anything military.” 

“I was. Now I’m not.” 

“Okay, then. Don’t mess up,” Catra says, and then leaves the first screen behind. Adora goes to it and starts reading numbers. 

It’s almost incomprehensible-- not even because of the shorthand, which Adora can now translate with relative ease, but because of its content-- but as Adora reads, she starts to pick up more and more information. A shocking amount of resources, for example, go into defending the Horde’s own villages.

Catra’s decisions are well-informed, precise, and strategic. Even Adora (who knows barely anything about how to conduct a war) can tell she’s among the best. It would be a wonder if Brightmoon Kingdom could match her skill. 

“Are you better than Brightmoon?”

“What?”

“You must know. Do you have more resources? Are they outmatching you? Are you a better commander?”

Catra contemplates it for a minute while she spins her charts, checking her data. “I know for a fact that my tech is better. This is one-of-a-kind.”

“That’s not what I asked...”

“Okay, well. At the risk of sounding egotistical, I _am_ better. The Brightmoon army is disorganized. They’re trying to push straight toward the center of the Horde, not that they know where the Fright Zone is.”

“Well, you’re the enemy.”

“Yeah, but that’s not intelligent. You don’t go straight for the stronghold.”

“What’s your plan? Are you trying to capture all of Brightmoon?”

“No, just a lot of it. It’s not like they can govern all the way out at the edges of their borders, anyway. Those villages are pathetically underdeveloped.”

“Why? Why conquer it?”

Catra cackles. “Because I’m a benevolent ruler!”

“That’s not true at all!” 

“Then tell me, Adora, what harm the Horde has done.” 

“You-- you invade! You conquer! You don’t take prisoners!” 

_“Duh,_ prisoners are too expensive. Easier to let people go free.” 

“You-- you--”

Catra taps on her head. “Hello? Are you stuck?”

“Brightmoon is prosperous and fair!”

“Horde’s pretty prosperous, too,” Catra muses. “What are we calling ‘fair’, here? Is it the governance? I’m pretty sure I have the same power over my people as the Queen does; I just call myself a Lord.” 

“No, like the-- there’s _fruit_ in Brightmoon--”

This one earns her such an _incredulous_ stare that Adora turns bright red, realizing the argument she’s just made. 

“Okay maybe there’s fruit in the Horde too,” she mumbles as an apology.

“Would you like to continue our task? I’ll let you stew on your ingrained beliefs in silence.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

...

They have dinner (with fruit, no less), and after that, Catra invites Adora to one of the combat practice rooms. Once they arrive, Catra pulls out her smallest blade-- a black dagger-- and holds it aloft. 

“I mean, just imagine,” Catra says, flipping the blade. Adora is as curious to see where this is going as she is captivated by the spin of Catra’s dagger as she tosses it again, again, again. “You could be in Brightmoon right now...”

Adora waits. 

“Here,” Catra says, and hands the dagger hilt-first to Adora. 

“Really?”

“Yes. Take it.” 

Adora does, and holds it somewhat awkwardly. 

“Hold it like you mean it, Adora. Anyway, you could be in Brightmoon right now-- what are you doing?”

Adora glances at Catra questioningly. She doesn’t know, actually. She’s just holding this dagger. 

Catra makes some mutter of disapproval and suddenly her hands are _on_ Adora’s-- forcing her fingers into a slightly different position, and squeezing around her grip. “There. That’s how you hold a dagger. Remember those lunges we do in the morning?”

“Yes...”

“Do one, and this time, hold your arm out like you’re stabbing someone.”

Adora does, and then Catra says, “Stay!” and nudges at Adora’s knee, tucking it back in line with her body. She pushes roughly at Adora’s shoulders until Adora’s in the position she wants. 

“Okay. I mean it. Stay.” 

“Okay...” Adora says, still wondering what exactly this is. 

“Anyway. Brightmoon. What would you be doing?”

“Reading, probably,” Adora says, knowing the answer Catra’s trying to draw out of her. 

“There, you see? Reading! How _boring._ Oh, is the strain getting to you yet?”

Hm. Yes, which Catra can probably tell by the shaking. Adora’s arm is shaking with the effort of being held aloft, and her legs are shaking with the effort of staying in the lunge. 

“So what am I doing right now?” Adora asks, gritting her teeth against the shaking. 

“Stand up! Switch the dagger to your other hand,” Catra says, and Adora obeys. “Lunge.” 

Adora does so, and this time she’s prepared; she keeps Catra’s previous tips in mind. She waits for the corrections, but they don’t come. 

“You’re a natural,” Catra says; the praise washes over Adora like summer sun. “And to answer your question, this is dagger practice.”

“You’re letting me do dagger practice?” Adora asks, shocked, and finds her resolve for staying in this pose suddenly strengthened. The shaking is pushed back the slightest bit. 

Dagger practice is-- somewhat literally-- a dream come true; this _might_ be what wins her over, she thinks, but tries not to truly mean the ‘being won over’ part. 

“Yes. I thought you’d enjoy it,” Catra says, sounding miffed at Adora’s incredulous tone. 

“I do,” Adora says, despite the strain in her thighs and her arms. “Can we keep going?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be in Brightmoon instead?”

Adora, catching on finally, fakes a lunge towards Catra-- and Catra, laughing, disarms her before Adora realizes she’s moved. 

“That’s not nice,” Catra tsks, “and for that matter, not good form at all! I guess you’ll have to hold the lunge for longer.” 

(Catra says, “You know, this practice is entirely your choice.”

“I know,” Adora says, steadfastly choosing to hold the lunge even though her arm is shaking uncontrollably.

“Of course.”)

...

That night, Catra stands in the doorway and says, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” 

“No, you won’t.”

Catra sticks her tongue out. “Let me have my fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left two notes for myself on this chapter:  
> 1) "to be clear, she's not NOT a conqueror" referring to Catra's "because I'm a benevolent ruler!" statement  
> 2) somewhere in the dagger practice section: "Catra: how can I get the pretty girl to stay?/Catra: I know!!! deadly weapons :)"
> 
> anyway i hope the dagger practice lived up to the hype lmfao


	11. OF BRIGHTMOON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are y'all ready for some fucking ThiNKING

**11 OF BRIGHTMOON**

It’s somewhere along the timeline of another three weeks that Adora realizes she hasn’t thought about Manor Grayskull or returning to it in-- a  _ while.  _

And during those three weeks, Catra has allowed Adora to make more and more decisions, and those decisions have become less and less menial. 

_ And,  _ at the end of those three weeks, approximately right on schedule, Adora learns a few basic moves with a dagger and successfully sinks it into a red circle sketched on a sack of discards from the grain refinery. Yes, she’s strong enough to hold a dagger steady through a strike, but she also has  _ control  _ over her body in a way she didn’t before. Catra watches and nods approvingly. 

“You don’t seem nervous that I’ll use it against you,” Adora reiterates, despite the conversation after her little assassination conundrum.

“First of all, I can still beat you in a fight while half-blind and exhausted. Second, we both know that you belong here now.”

“I--”

But Catra’s right. Being at the Horde has been far more rewarding than any of her time spent at Manor Grayskull. 

The same night Adora first hits the red target, Catra gets a surprise influx of work at 11 p.m., and Adora helps her through it. It involves, on both of their parts, running around the Fright Zone and considering many variables; at the end of it, nearing 2 a.m., Catra flops on her bed, exhausted. 

“Shouldn’t I go to my room?” Adora asks through a yawn. 

“Ah. Yes. Good night, Adora--” 

“What about the lock?”

Catra forces herself up on her elbows. “I haven’t locked your door in at  _ least  _ two weeks, you dummy.”

“Oh.” 

“As I was saying, good work, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning. Y’know, when I’m awake again.”

“Sleep well, Catra,” Adora says, and returns to her room alone. 

...

Adora has been wholeheartedly convinced, on Catra’s unceasing insistence, that the difference between Brightmoon and the Horde is branding. 

(As a counterpoint to the terrifying concept of the Horde not taking prisoners, Brightmoon doesn’t keep Horde prisoners either. They might interrogate a spy, but the justice system in the Kingdom is, perhaps, unfortunately binary-- those few Horde members who ended up in cuffs in Brightmoon were either eventually released back to their lands or met the guillotine. It was considered humane.)

Adora will  _ not _ be convinced-- and Catra does not try to deceive her into thinking-- that everything Catra does is good, or even that the war is wholly justified. However, this ends up being a comfort rather than a disturbance. Brightmoon Kingdom and their equally morally gray practices are being brought to light, and Adora hates  _ herself _ for not seeing through the propaganda earlier. 

She ends a day’s work with Catra, and they have dinner; as they’ve been doing occasionally, they have it with a small group of people. Scorpia, Rogelio, Kyle, and Lonnie all join them at the table. There’s more fruit than the Horde members are used to-- purely for Adora’s benefit. 

Then they play cards. Adora’s being taught to gamble; she is  _ very  _ bad at it. Luckily, they let her gamble petty things. She has to give Lonnie a kiss on the cheek, and she has to run down the corridor and back. Scorpia has to do a pushup while Rogelio sits on her shoulders-- it is  _ very  _ impressive to watch. Lonnie wins  _ Catra’s  _ assistance for three hours, which, judging by her smirk, will mean mopping. Kyle loses his last allotted piece of fruit to Rogelio. 

And then she’s walked to her room by Catra, who repeats her typical mantra and closes the door but does not lock it. 

...

It’s the next night that Adora decides to leave her room at night and wander the Fright Zone. She doesn’t know what she’s trying to prove. 

She doesn’t really have a destination in mind. It’s largely quiet; no one is at work. Machines hum in the background. 

Adora goes to the kitchen, and pokes around in the pantry like she’s done before on a quest for Catra. She liberates a bread roll and eats it as she walks away. 

There’s a lot she could have done weeks ago, and she’ll do none of it now. 

Trust? Yes. Trust. That  _ is  _ what she’s trying to prove. This nighttime excursion is possible because of Catra’s trust in her, and hers in Catra. Catra has her loyalty, provided she has Catra’s, and she thinks she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly, some of the stuff I decided to specifically bring up this chapter was called out by some people in the comments last chapter; maybe I am indeed passable at continuity.   
> Anyway, the next chapter is going to have ACTION again!


	12. CAMPAIGNS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's summer-hot where I am; I feel bad that Catra has to wear all that armor. Good morning everyone!

**12 CAMPAIGNS**

Weeks have passed since that first nighttime excursion, and Catra says, “Adora, I’m going on campaign for two weeks.” 

“You’re going to fight in the war?”

“Yes.”

“Conquer another hapless manor?”

“A city, actually,” Catra says. “I will also reposition my troops a mile further into Brightmoon territory. We’re moving east from Manor Grayskull.” 

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“I’m giving you something. Your own dagger. Go get the one on the table.” 

Adora jogs over. “This? For me?”

It’s small, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Beautiful but understated. “Thank you!” 

“Yes. Consider it a reminder of me while I’m away.” 

“What-- I’m staying here?  _ Hordak!”  _

“I didn’t think you would have wanted to go,” Catra says. 

“I’m curious.” 

“And fearless,” Catra notes. “It’s a literal warzone, Adora.” 

“I’ve been in one before, thanks to you.” 

Catra scoffs. “Hardly. Fine, but only because I’ll convince you to stay back in the war tents.” 

“Sure,” Adora grumbles. 

“Adora, you can’t even throw a punch.” 

“I’d give it a good effort.” 

“Yes, you would.” Catra grins. It’s a good look on her. “Did you also want to come so you could see your manor again?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.” 

Catra shakes her head. “If I didn’t know you were so bad at bluffing, I’d think you were lying. No one just  _ doesn’t think  _ about their home when offered the opportunity to return.” 

“Hey!” 

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Catra quips. “Sure. Pack your belongings. We leave tonight.” 

...

They take the same ship to Manor Grayskull that they’d left it on. The journey is fairly familiar; Adora gets to wander the ship, and there are soldiers everywhere, and she breakfasts with Catra and the crew. 

When they dock mid-afternoon, the sky is bright in a painful way. Manor Grayskull is gloomily grey, and imposingly stately. There’s a stuffy sense of symmetry about the whole design. 

The squat green-gray chaparral bushes and wildflowers are still struggling on the edge of the beach-- and as they disembark, Adora snaps, “Avoid the plants!” at Catra. 

Catra laughs. “You heard her, soldiers! Don’t step on the plants!”

They obey, for the most part. Adora appreciates it. She cares, weirdly enough, for those poor plants. 

(There’s a Horde banner hanging over her manor, but that-- the manor house isn’t a dead thing because it wasn’t even alive in the first place, and Adora does not care.) 

The manor is being used as housing for soldiers that had arrived earlier; Catra’s current campaign isn’t a hasty decision by any means. Adora somewhat curiously goes to her old audience chamber. Any furniture has been cleared, mats have been laid on the floor, and two soldiers are currently sparring. 

“Do you like my renovations?” Catra asks. 

“That looks like more fun than dealing with political issues.”

“I’m sure it is.” 

They move on, and into the fields where the war tents are already set up. The commander’s tent belongs to her and Catra both, now. Though it is fully enclosed, and there are two separate cots, Adora realizes she’ll have no privacy from Catra. 

Adora puts her little bag down by the cot she chooses as hers, and Catra puts hers down as well. 

“Tonight, there’s going to be a bonfire. In the morning, I request that you help me armor up, and then walk back to the manor and  _ stay there.”  _

“How long will you be gone...?”

“The whole day.”

Adora nods, and joins Catra in walking to the bonfire. It’s a rowdy affair; Catra becomes the center of attention immediately. Adora is largely looked over as just another white-shirted individual in the fraying light, but Catra is wearing the blacks and reds she’s so known for, and additionally, stomping around the logs yelling about bravery. The soldiers cheer for her-- for Hordak-- and raise glasses to her. 

The fire burns down to glowing logs, and though none of the soldiers are turning in yet, Catra retreats with Adora in tow. As soon as they’re in their tent, Adora turns away for  _ one second--  _ and Catra’s shirt is off. 

Adora lets out some noise of surprise; Catra looks at her curiously. “What?”

“You’re, you know.”

“This isn’t the first time,” Catra laughs, and takes off her pants too. “Are you going to change for bed?”

Adora grabs her sleep clothes out of her bag and turns toward the corner of the tent. “Don’t look.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Adora pinches the hem of her shirt. “You’re looking.” 

“I’m not. I promise. Jeez, do you want to blindfold me?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Adora mutters, and whips the shirt off as fast as she can. She grabs the sleep shirt and puts it on. She does the same with the pants, and suffers an embarrassing indignity when they catch on her ankle and she has to hop to remove them, but soon enough she is re-clothed.

“Did you peek?”

“I didn’t peek, Adora; are you done?”

“Yeah.” 

_ “Finally.”  _ Catra turns and lowers her hands from her eyes. “I’ll never understand your hangups about nudity.” 

Adora shrugs and sits down on her cot. “Did you intend to sleep now?”

“Yes-- all the preparations are done; we should get some rest before morning.” 

“Okay.” 

In lieu of a door, when Adora lays down, Catra walks over and pulls the blanket over her in a perfunctory manner. “Good night, Adora,” she says, standing over the bed while Adora is propped on her elbows. “Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning, of course.” 

Adora laughs and sinks into her pillow. Catra slips under the covers of her own cot, and she turns her head to face Adora’s.

Adora falls asleep to Catra’s slowly blinking yellow and blue eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! action!  
> today's Writing Lore is that Manor Grayskull never changed climates in my editing bc I like the word chaparral too much to delete it from my work. The Fright Zone, on the other hand, was once in a forest a la Whispering Woods, and is now in a desert wasteland. It be like that sometimes.


	13. HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! After writing Attention and A Mask of My Own Face, I'm back to working on the story I took a break from to write this one. Expect it sometime in the next year or maybe never.

**13 HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN**

They wake up when sunlight streams through the tent’s thin fabric. Adora is somewhat sore from the cot’s unfortunate surface. 

Catra notices. “Come on. Let’s stretch. It’ll feel better.” 

They stretch together, and Catra goes easy on the morning workout routine. “Help me into my armor?”

“What, now? Before breakfast?”

“We’re going on the trail as soon as I’m armored. We’ll eat on the way.” 

“Delightful.” 

Together, they free the armor from the chest at the foot of Catra’s cot. Catra dresses in her canvas and wool, knots her hair, and sits on the cot so Adora can help her into the tall boots. Next is the chain tunic, then the complicated breastplate with all the straps on the sides. The plate pieces on her arms attach individually to links in the chain tunic. There’s a blue cloth vanity item over the top of the whole ensemble (Adora stretches it carefully over the plate armor pieces), emblazoned with the Horde crest, and last is the tall white helm that modulates Catra’s voice. 

Adora pushes the helm down over Catra’s head. “You’re ready.” 

“Thank you.” (The voice change is abrupt; Adora reels.) Catra stands and pushes the tent flap open; Adora follows. “You should walk back to the manor, now.” 

“I know,” Adora says. “Hordak... come home, okay?”

“I will.” 

She stomps away in her platformed boots, and just before rejoining her troops, wiggles her fingers in a little wave at Adora. Adora waves back.

The Horde invading force disappears on those curious machines they use instead of horses, and Adora walks back to the manor alone. 

...

Adora’s back in the manor, and  _ bored.  _

It’s as tedious as her life once was, without even the duty of governance to break up the monotony. She pages through a few books, but it’s dull and uninspiring. She could go on a walk, but to see what? Wildflowers and chaparral, like always?

She visits the orchard anyway; it is indeed doing well, which means Catra must have made good on her promise to hire some farmers. Adora takes a pear and eats it as she wanders through the trees. After she’s exhausted that particular activity, there’s still hours left to go before Catra’s return. 

There are a small number of soldiers remaining in the camp and manor. Adora approaches one. 

“Lady,” he acknowledges. 

“Just Adora. What was your name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack, do you mind teaching me how to throw a punch?”

“Sure, if you think you’re up to it.” 

“I am.” 

Jack takes her back to her old throne room, and sets her up on the mats. He teaches her how to stand, and instructs her in how to move her body and drive her weight. Adora’s surprised to find that it’s not just her arm doing the work. 

Under Jack’s instruction, she punches the air. 

Predictably, she’s bad to start, but she slowly improves over the course of their impromptu lesson. She feels almost powerful, after a while, especially when her body ends in the exact position she wants it to. She catches a glance of her arm and is surprised to see traces of the hard muscle that Ladies never have. Catra’s definitely stronger, but Catra is also  _ wiry,  _ so one day... one day, Adora’s muscles might be bigger than Catra’s. 

Lunchtime rolls around, and she is exhausted; Jack calls a break for food and they don’t return to the mats afterwards. 

But she’s satisfied. That was the most satisfying thing she’s ever done in this manor. 

With that in mind, she goes looking for other ways to betray her old life. With effort, she gets herself on top of some decorative pillars. She sits on the windowsill of the third story, looking out over the ocean, with her feet dangling in the air. She goes in search of her old gowns, and finds her bedroom converted into yet more sleeping spaces for soldiers, which makes sense, she supposes; her wardrobe is still populated, though. She picks out a red dress (she’s grown fond of the color, and won’t admit it’s because she associates it with Catra), and takes it back to their shared tent; she pulls out a needle and thread from the little repair kit and gets to work. 

Four hours later, she has a red vest to wear over her white shirt. If she says so herself, it suits her. 

Dinnertime comes and goes without Catra, and the evening sets in. Adora practices her plank and her squats, but doesn’t do anything involving her arms, which still feel like noodles from when Jack had finally let her punch the huge standing sack that the soldiers used as practice. 

Night falls; the stars emerge. Catra finally rides back in with the troops. She stomps towards their tent, weariness in every movement. Adora holds open the flap; as soon as they’re both inside the tent, Adora gets to work on her armor. 

Catra is finally disrobed, having used Adora’s help even with the canvas tunic, and now is wearing only a compressive top and the wool leggings. She flops on the bed and her hair spills around her. Adora wraps both her hands around Catra’s and tugs her back up to sitting.

“How did it go?”

“We won, Adora.” 

Adora congratulates her with an arm around her shoulders and discovers that Catra is very sweaty (and no wonder, with all that armor.) 

“Shouldn’t you bathe?”

“I suppose,” Catra says, sounding very much like she intends to do no such thing. 

“You’re disgusting right now.” 

“What about it?”

“You can’t sleep like this.” 

“Can’t I?”

Adora drags Catra to her feet. “We’ll use my private bathroom in the manor. No-one’s touched it. I think it’s too distastefully decorated.” 

“How is it decorated?”

“You know, pink.” 

Catra wrinkles her nose. “Awful.” 

“I know,” Adora agrees. 

They make it to the unoccupied bathroom, and Adora draws the bath. “The soap is right beside you-- I’ll come back when you’re done.” 

“You know, you could stay. I don’t care about modesty.” 

“I’m getting you a towel, Catra,” Adora laughs, and leaves. She finds towels still stacked in the linen closet, and fetches two. She sits with her back against the bathroom doorway. 

“I have a towel!”

“Then come in.” 

“No.”

“Fine-- but if I fall asleep and drown, it’ll be your fault.” 

“You could keep talking to me so I know you’re okay...”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Tell me about the battle.” 

Battle stories are, Adora finds, largely the same. She can’t picture the maneuvers in her head like she’s sure Catra can, and she’s lost the narrative somewhere along the line, so she stops trying to parse it and instead just listens to Catra’s honey voice. 

“Okay. I’m done. I’m coming out.”

Adora stands and readies the towel; after a bit of splashing, Catra emerges and accepts it. “Are you going to bathe as well?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll stay here and finish my story.”

Catra assumes Adora’s previous position, and continues speaking while Adora washes herself-- even her hair, though it takes much longer. 

Then she sits, soaking in the tub, while Catra continues to speak. Adora barely even processes individual words, and simply rests and listens to the cadence of Catra’s voice almost meditatively. 

The moment is serene. Serene, and, she thinks,  _ beautiful,  _ if moments can be such a thing-- she  _ loves _ this moment, she’s shocked to realize. 

After a while, Catra says, “...and then we came right back to the war tents,” which Adora assumes means that the story is over. 

“Okay. I’m done. Let’s dry off and get back to the tent.” 

Adora redresses in her clothes after toweling off; Catra refuses, saying that as long as she’s clean, she’s not putting on sweaty clothes. 

“It’s a fifteen minute walk!” Adora protests. 

“And I will go in a towel. Here, lend me yours as well; I’ll wear two towels.”

“What a compromise.” 

Catra tucks one around her waist and slings the other over her shoulders, and off they go. In the absence of daylight, the night is cold, and their wet hair is not doing either of them any favors. 

“Regretting this yet?” Adora asks. 

“No.” 

They get back to the tent; the last half of the walk, Catra had been huddled and shivering, not to mention yawning. 

“Regretting it now?”

“No,” Catra insists. She casts aside her towels and dives for her sleep clothes. Once clothed, she tucks herself into the cot and nestles into the covers. 

“Whatever you say,” Adora says. “Good night, Catra.” 

“Only b’cuz... we’re not commanding,” Catra mumbles, referring to Adora’s use of her name. “G’night Adora. Good work. Good sleep. Good... morning.” 

Adora smiles fondly and tucks herself in as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing lore is that back in chapter seven-- the chapter Adora wears the soldier clothes for the first time-- I was originally going to have her remake the white dress into a shirt-and-pants deal instead. That ended up not flowing, so I did my destruction of dresses bit in this chapter. Red is a better nod to canon anyway!


	14. CITY PROPER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I cut my hair short and could no longer do a Glimmer cosplay without a wig.

**14 CITY PROPER**

The next morning, Catra growls at the sunlight, but swings herself out of bed just the same. Adora joins her for morning stretches and a morning workout, and then it’s breakfast with the soldiers.

“So, what do we do now that the city is under Horde control?”

“Well, we establish governance. Half the soldiers who were here before we landed were already assigned to be stationed in the city.”

“Who is in charge?”

“The Force Captain, Jack. But he’ll report back to me.” 

“Oh! I met him. He taught me how to punch.” 

“Oh, good. How was it?”

“Surprisingly tiring.” 

Catra nods. “Would you like to go into the city today?”

“Is that wise?”

“Well, it  _ is  _ our city now.”

Adora puts on her shoes and her new red vest. “Sure. Let’s go into the city.”

“Oh, good!”

...

There are soldiers walking the streets; most citizens are inside or maybe peeking out of their windows. 

“Is it always going to be like this?” Adora asks, hushed. 

“No, it’ll tone down within days. Have you ever been to this city before?”

“I have, yes. I used to buy dresses here.” 

“Like this one?” Catra asks, tugging Adora’s vest. 

“Yes, exactly!”

“Anyway,” Catra says, “the citizens have suffered no losses; we don’t attack anyone who is unarmed. Only the guard force is worse for wear.”

“What will you do with the City Guard?”

“Each guardsman is being offered the chance to renounce their weapons, or to enter the Horde as a cadet.” 

“Will any take the cadet offer? Training is in the Fright Zone.”

“Well, sure, but their eventual assignment will be here, defending their own city.” 

“Isn’t that dangerous for you?”

“It would be-- but cadet training is years long; I am relying on the citizens having formed connections with my soldiers. I am also relying on Brightmoon officially releasing this land to the Horde. The city won’t be under Brightmoon tax rates-- that’s my carrot, my stick is that they won’t be able to go to Brightmoon for aid, and will have to come to me instead, if they experience shortages.” 

“Don’t  _ you _ tax your people?”

“So, first of all, conquering’s a fairly prosperable business--” 

“Oh, God.” Adora shoves Catra. 

“Hey! You asked! But you  _ do _ know the Fright Zone produces the vast majority of any large metalwork, right? Even Brightmoon buys from us. All the foundries across the land are owned by the Lord-- like things can be owned by the Crown rather than the Queen, in your terms.”

“Okay, so do you tax your people?”

_ “Far _ less than Brightmoon.” 

“Huh.” 

They continue along the streets. Adora is the one drawing attention this time, with her red vest; Catra is wearing the same garb as any soldier. 

“Do you think any of them will recognize you?” Catra asks. 

“Hardly. Well, maybe the shopkeeper who sold me all those dresses.”

“Do you want to go there?”

“You’re just trying to create chaos! They’ll learn that your  _ takes no prisoners  _ rhetoric is a lie, and then where will you be?”

“Psh, no one knows what actually happened on the steps of the manor. Maybe you pledged your allegiance to me so I didn’t kill you.”

“Well, that is what happened; it just wasn’t my choice.” 

“What would you have done, if you’d known it would have worked to pledge to me and beg for your life?”

Adora thinks. “I... I might have begged. I might have tried to assassinate you anyway, though. “

“Well, there you go.” 

They’ve arrived at the shop without Adora realizing, but she must have led them here; it’s not like Catra knows the layout of the city. 

“So, are we going in?”

In response, Adora pushes the door open. The shopkeeper is indeed inside, looking somewhat lost as she stares at her wares. She turns to them on their entry; Catra is already pretending to browse dresses. 

“Are y-you here to buy a dress..?” she asks tremulously. 

“Just browsing,” Catra says. 

Her gaze slides past Catra to Adora, still standing in the doorway, and she startles. 

“What is it?” Adora asks. 

“You--  _ Lady Grayskull?” _

“Just Adora, actually,” Adora says, grinning, “as the Horde has Manor Grayskull.” 

“We’d assumed you’d been killed!” 

“Ah, well, I convinced Hordak I could be useful in other ways,” Adora says. “I wasn’t Lady Grayskull for nothing; I have governing capabilities that he  _ needed.” _

“What--  _ that’s  _ not what happened!” Catra protests immediately.

“What would you know, soldier? You weren’t there; the conversation was with Hordak,” Adora says smugly. Catra growls. 

“Is the Horde good to you?” the shopkeeper asks. “I-- It’s been such a weird day...”

“Good, yes. Surprisingly kind, if a little vulgar. You know, the Force Captain stationed here-- he’s named Jack-- taught me how to throw a punch.” 

“Really? That seems unmannerly.”

“Ah, maybe, but I’m not a Lady anymore.” Adora tugs on her vest. 

“Wh--  _ Lady Grayskull,  _ is that one of  _ mine?” _

“Oops,” Adora laughs. “Truthfully, it had suffered an unfortunate accident with some red wine, and I thought I’d honor your work by repurposing it.” 

“That’s... rather thoughtful. Thank you.” 

“I  _ do _ love your work. Look after yourself, okay, Evelynn? I just wanted to come by and check on you. After spending so much time in your shop...”

“You take care of yourself too, Lady Grayskull.”

“I can’t convince you to call me Adora?”

“You’ll always be a Lady to me, ma’am.”

“You’re too kind. I must be leaving now-- goodbye!”

“Godspeed!” Evelynn says as Adora and Catra retret. 

...

_ “How?!”  _ Catra demands.

“Hmm?”

“You just-- I counted three lies, Adora, three  _ major _ lies you came up with on the spot. And for what?”

“Ah. Was I transparent?”

“No, surprisingly, and also not the point.”

“Well, for her and for you, of course. I saw a chance to smooth the transition from Brightmoon to Horde for this town, and I took it.”

“You bridged the gap.”

“Yes, that.”

“Oh,” Catra says, and then, “Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, my Lord.” 

She must look very smug; Catra is shaking her head fondly. “You’re allowed to gloat until we reach the tents, and no more.”

“Very well,  _ my Lord,”  _ Adora cackles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art of Adora!](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/627072900866998272/from-chapter-14-of-a-storybook-story-ao3)
> 
> :D this is how i pictured the vest because it's a mix between a clothe *I* destroyed once upon a time, the Jacket, and what-would-Adora-actually-be-able-to-sew-from-a-dress. 
> 
> Today's writing lore (as if the art wasn't enough) is that I couldn't remember the name of this chapter when I went to type it in the chapter title box, so I guess this is a really uninspired chapter name.


	15. INTERIOR DECORATION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever since interior crocodile alligator, this chapter title won't let me rest.   
> Happy halfway done! By word count, we're 56% of the way done.

**15 INTERIOR DECORATION**

They spend the night in the fields outside Manor Grayskull. They’ll spend tomorrow here as well, and then Catra is going back to the Fright Zone, so Adora will as well. 

When they go to sleep, Catra manages to be more coherent about her death threat.

“Good sleep, good morning,” Adora teases when she’s finished, and instead of letting go of the blanket after draping it over Adora’s lap, Catra yanks it over Adora’s head. 

“You shut your mouth.” 

“No.”

They end up settled eventually, and Adora drops off to sleep, and thinks she’ll miss this when she has to go back to her solitary room down the hall in the ship. 

Catra must make one last appearance as Hordak, but they get to eat breakfast before Adora helps her don her armor. The process is getting faster as Adora learns what things can go on before which other things, and soon enough, Hordak is ready to walk out. 

“I’ll be in the manor until lunchtime,” Adora says. 

“You’re not coming to the city?”

“No, not today, unless you need me. I thought I’d go find some old art pieces I’d liked.” 

“Okay-- I’m holding you to our lunch date. Ideally, I’d also get your help with my armor before lunch.” 

“Of course.” 

...

Where were those damned rock sculptures? Adora remembers late Lady Grayskull hadn’t liked her frivolous purchase; Adora had excused it with her typical ‘support local artists’ schtick. 

It wasn’t traditional; that’s what was wrong with it. No intricate metalwork, nor stone carving, so much as the artist had chosen discarded pebbles on the beach and woven them into little wire frames. There’d been a scorpion, a peacock, and some ants playing instruments-- where  _ did  _ they go?

There were a few extraneous hallways in the manor that provided alternate routes to a bigger and more ornate hallway; servants tended to take the former and Lady Grayskull the latter. Adora would be willing to bet that if her art pieces had ended up anywhere, they’d ended up in one of those. 

It takes thirty minutes, but Adora eventually locates the hallway and the sculptures. The peacock is still there-- when Adora taps its beak, it begins to rock gently back and forth. The scorpion’s tail waves; the ants were too simple to do much of anything. 

There isn’t any paint on the rocks, either; that probably would have redeemed them in the eyes of Lady Grayskull. They’re left bare and sea-tumbled, and the copper wire is equally exposed. One ant has verdigris creeping up one foot. 

Adora contemplates how to pick them all up. She has, apparently, not thought ahead far enough.

Eventually, she realizes that the ants have little bent feet, and she can hook them on the waistband of her pants. In one hand, she picks up the body-stone of the peacock; in the other she has the scorpion. She has no more hands left to open doors, but, well, there’s still soldiers about and they respond well to her polite requests, even if they’re clearly bemused about her cargo. 

Adora makes it back to the tent without dropping a single ant, amazingly, and places them carefully on Catra’s temporary desk. She wonders if there’s any other art she’s been missing from the manor; dresses, art, and books were her three manners of personal affect, and she’s renouncing the dresses and bored of the books. She may as well keep the art. 

There was a lamp-- a severely odd, somewhat nonfunctional one, and the memory of it reminds Adora of the Fright Zone. Where was that?

...

Catra returns to her desk piled with the rock sculptures, a few geodes, and the weird black stone Adora had found on the beach at age fifteen. There’s also a floor lamp, angular and black, that spews light in a striped pattern. 

“What’s all this?”

“Art,” Adora suggests.

“Okay. Well. We’ll deal with that later, I suppose. Help me with the armor?”

Adora does. Catra steps free of the last of it, and says, “Shall we go to lunch?”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Catra tells Adora about the city, and about being Hordak. (Being Hordak, Adora decides, is not unlike what she’d done in the shop earlier: it’s a front to put on to get the reaction you desire.) Adora tells Catra about juggling rock sculptures as she took the fifteen minute walk back; Catra says, “You made the trip  _ how  _ many times?”

“Uh, four.” 

Catra shakes her head. “I’m glad you had an exciting day.” 

“Can I take the sculptures back to the Fright Zone?”

“Sure. Will they go with my decor?”

“You don’t have decor,” Adora giggles. 

“Excuse  _ me  _ that I’m too busy conquering Brightmoon for interior decoration!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Writing Lore is that the animal rock sculpture concept was taken directly from a recurring craft fair I used to go to as a child. I loved those little things but never bought one because I was a miserly six-to-ten-year-old.


	16. THE WAY HOME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! short chapter Monday :)

**16 THE WAY HOME**

They embark on the journey home the next morning. Adora brings her bag, which now holds her vest as well, and her rock sculptures, lamp, and black rock. She leaves the geodes behind. 

“Did you have a theme?” Catra asks in amusement. “Seriously, why are all of these rocks?”

“I like them!” Adora protests. 

“Whatever you say, darling.” 

Catra helps her get the rocks on the ship, and stashes them in her quarters, which are significantly larger than any soldier’s. They have dinner while aboard the ship, and then spend time in each other’s company for the rest of the evening. 

“You don’t need me to walk you to your room anymore, do you?” Catra asks. 

No, Adora does not, but she suddenly realizes that she  _ wants  _ more of Catra’s time, including this strange little ritual. Besides--

“Well, am I in the same room on the ship? I wasn’t told.” 

“Oh. Hm, perhaps not. Let me check with Octavia.”

Octavia, the slightly brutish Force Captain who’s doing whatever Lonnie usually does when she’s on a ship, looks Adora up and down and says, “Oh-- I’d forgotten.” 

“You’d  _ forgotten?”  _ Catra drawls. “Octavia...”

“Sorry, Lord, I’d really forgotten. I’d check for an open room, but we’re already doubling soldiers up...”

“Never mind that. There are extra cots, right? Have one brought to my room,” Catra commands. 

And Adora didn’t even have to ask. 

They spend the night in the same room for the entirety of the ship’s journey, and Adora’s well aware the whole time that she’s being spoiled by the closeness. Once they finally get back to the Fright Zone, she is unfortunately out of excuses. 

For the first time in two weeks, she sleeps alone. 

...

Adora rises at dawn and knocks on Catra’s door. Catra opens it with a knife in her hand.  _ “What?” _

“Morning stretches?”

“You’re a nightmare,” Catra says, and pushes open the door so that Adora can enter the room. 

They fall back into the rhythm of the Fright Zone, but secretly-- and somewhat hopefully-- Adora believes there’s been a fundamental change. She’s attended a battle, even if she didn’t fight. (She shared a tent with Catra.) She went to the city in the aftermath, and told little lies to help the Horde-- and the city-- but certainly the Horde. (She helped Catra with her armor twice, a surprisingly intimate activity.) She visited her former manor, and accepted its changes and the fact that she didn’t own it any more, and desecrated her leadership of it by throwing punches in the throne room. (And she’d stolen back her artwork, and Catra had made a joke about “moving in”.) 

Another night goes by; despite her earlier words, Catra still walks her to her room every night she can. 

Tomorrow, Adora thinks, she will ask. Catra has her loyalty. Maybe... maybe even her devotion, however they’re defining that. She deserves the story of Hordak. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing lore today is; I wrote this In Chapters instead of what I usually do, which is write a many-chapters-long story in one continuous go and delineate chapters afterward. After making the first chapter originally two pages in Google Docs, I decided to give myself a minimum chapter length...  
> And this one came in just barely under the limit.   
> Whoops.   
> But, we've got some long-ass chapters coming up, and of course... the answers you've been waiting for since Chapter 2 up next!


	17. THE STORY OF HORDAK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one you've been waiting for!!

**17 THE STORY OF HORDAK**

Adora is up once more at dawn and knocks on Catra’s door. Catra opens it. “Yes, hello. Morning stretches?”

Adora nods. “Can we work on some more punching, too?”

“Sure, why not.”

They finish their routine, and Adora says, “Have I earned Hordak’s story yet?”

Catra looks surprised, and then contemplative, and then says, “You know what, I think you have. Let’s make an event of this though, okay? You’ll have to wait ‘til dinner.” 

“Ugh, fine.” 

They have a busy day that day, full of supply updates and requisition requests. To her dismay, Adora has to redo some tedious calculations she’d done earlier, but incorporate the Horde’s newest conquest.

“Chin up,” Catra says. “I’ll get you some mint tea while you work.” 

“Oh, that’d be great!” 

“Right, if you like mint, you little weirdo.” 

Catra disappears and reappears with a mug, setting it on her desk with an uttered “Only because you have to do these calculations, mind you--” which is her way of pretending she is indeed as mean as she portrays herself. Adora finishes the math and the tea an hour later, and then it’s lunchtime. 

“And what are  _ you _ doing right now, Catra?”

“Weapons upgrades. Actually, finish that and come here,” Catra says, pointing at the last of Adora’s sandwich. Adora picks it up and walks over to the screen. “Tell me what you think of the analysis. I’m missing something. What am I missing?”

Adora considers, and considers, and considers. Yes, there  _ does  _ seem to be a weirdly vast price difference between these two upgrades, and yet the total cost is matching the sum... of... the...

“There’s an added metal plate,” Adora says, pointing. 

“Yes, that’s calculated.” 

“For a thousand identical pieces; all your other numbers are for three thousand.” 

“Damn! The default got left in!” Catra exclaims. “Thanks. Great, now I have to retotal this.” 

“Well, have fun with your math.  _ I’m  _ doing our routine walkaround inspections.” 

“And you’re leaving me  _ behind,”  _ Catra complains, but waves her off just the same. 

The walkaround inspections are somewhat meditative; it takes several minutes to walk between each location Adora is checking. She asks the Captain of each of the production zones about their productivity, and any problems they’re having, then asks about safety to see if they’re still following guidelines; she takes a brief tour of each facility to confirm that nothing looks too out of place. 

She returns to Catra after some hours, and perhaps in revenge for stealing the weekly walkaround inspections job, she gets immediately saddled with more math. She sticks her tongue out at Catra, and Catra does so right back.

_ Finally,  _ it’s dinner time; the last hour where Adora’s math job was petering out and Catra had been looking like she’d continue working through dinner was  _ tedious.  _ Catra takes a bite of potato and says abruptly, “So, you know I wasn’t always Hordak.”

“Well, yes.”

“The first Hordak really did start out as ruthless and violent as people know him to be.”

“So there  _ was  _ another Hordak. What was  _ his  _ name?”

“Hordak,” Catra says with considerable amusement. 

“No, really!”

“Do you want to hear the  _ story,  _ Adora,” Catra says exasperatedly; Adora nods. “He started expanding the Horde and conquering land. He had himself and his second-in-command to rely on, Sha-- I think you know  _ her  _ name by now-- and together they cultivated quite the...”

“Impression,” Adora supplies. 

“Yes, impression. Well, I didn’t start in the Horde either. I was an orphan, and twelve when they took me in.”

“That’s so young!”

“Yes, well. Hordak thought I’d be retrained to serve him. I was taken in because I’d put up so much of a fight; he thought he could use my anger. And, by the way, that’s what my goodnight ritual comes from-- I have, well,  _ fond  _ memories of that now, though I was terrified at the time.”

“You know, your threat was never so terrifying.” 

“I know! I’m well aware, but I try anyway. Anyway,  _ she _ took a disliking to me, and tried to make my life hell-- but then I killed her, and I won’t go into detail of that, but I was fifteen when I was finally free of her. By then, I was already the top cadet, and well on my way to Force Captaincy.”

“Congratulations.” 

“Thank you! Well, in the absence of  _ her,  _ Hordak mellowed out. Not to mention, he met this woman, Entrapta-- that’s who’s the second bureau-- and she upgraded everything the Fright Zone owned, and also made the man  _ soft.”  _

“Are you calling that a bad thing?”

Catra props her chin on her hand. “No, I don’t think so. Just a statement of fact.”

“Please continue.” 

“He decided he wanted to step down, and live out the rest of his life-- in Dryl, actually; he’s retired there now. But he wanted the Horde to continue, and the easiest way was if it never changed leadership at all.” 

“You were  _ fifteen  _ at the time?!”

“No; I was eighteen, ha. Force Captain for two years at that point. I had Scorpia, a fellow Force Captain, come on as my second-in-command, and I’ve been Hordak for almost two years. I’ve really settled in.”

“Yes, I can tell.” 

“So, now you know,” Catra says. “Quite the story, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Actually, wait, there’s one last thing you didn’t tell me.”

“What?”

“Why did you take me?”

Catra is startled into a laugh. “Oh! I mean, that’s a disconnected story-- but I didn’t really want to kill you, but you’d foiled my plans of accidentally letting you flee with your people.” 

_ “Oh.”  _

“But no Lady would stand in defense of her fleeing population with a decorative sword unless she secretly craved adventure, hm?”

“Or if she truly loved her people,” Adora says, crossing her arms petulantly. 

_ “Which _ was it for you?”

“Okay, maybe both of them.” 

Catra laughs again. “Well, now that you’ve heard my whole story-- this is where I’m supposed to offer you the position of Hordak, actually, in accordance with the tradition that gave  _ me  _ the position, but I’m nowhere near done yet. Instead, I’m thinking you stop being my personal assistant so much as my right hand.” 

“Nothing would change!”

“Which is exactly why I suggested it.”

"Very well, I  _ accept,"  _ Adora says. “Do I get a fancier title now?”

“Well, you could always--” Catra starts, and then abruptly stops. “No, I can’t think of any. Would you like to come up with one?”

“I’ll come back to it. It’s not like anyone calls me my current title, anyway.”

...

The dynamic between them shifts ever so slightly despite Adora’s earlier statement that nothing would change. Symbolically, their power structure no longer places Catra so directly in charge of Adora-- in fact, when Adora curiously asks if she has to answer to  _ anyone,  _ Catra shrugs and says, “No, actually, I don’t think so-- just consult me about any decisions you make for the Horde.”

Adora doesn’t come up with a title (but does wonder what Catra’s first thought had been), so she exists in a somewhat nebulous position at the Horde of being very important and yet wholly outside the chain of command. 

It doesn’t really matter, anyway. She’s happy, and doing work that she finds  _ fun  _ at times. She’s also slowly learning to fight-- she’s getting fairly good with her mother-of-pearl dagger, and she’s learning to box and wrestle. She’s joining soldiers for card games, losing bets to Lonnie and Rogelio with Scorpia and Kyle, and escaping the Fright Zone to watch the sandstorm-enhanced sunset over the ocean with Catra. 

“For good reason, we shouldn’t do this very often,” Catra says, as their covered vehicle is battered by the sand.

“But it’s so nice when we come out here,” Adora says, and slings her arm around Catra’s shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing lore is that this world's sun sets in the East because I fucked up lol   
> What did you all predict or not predict about the big reveal?


	18. NINE BY SEA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving across the country tmrw so it's anyone's guess if I'll actually get a chapter uploaded.

**18 NINE BY SEA**

There’s another campaign. This time, they’ll be going north from the Fright Zone, and it’s a much longer and more complicated journey: nine days by sea due north, then landfall, then east by land for another three days’ march. 

Catra’s goal is to work southeast for seven days, then she will settle into control of that region. She will then return to the Fright Zone-- she still must run it, after all-- and her army will continue without her after that point. She expects resistance from Brightmoon’s army this time, rather than just city guards. 

Preparation for the campaign involves Catra directing soldiers and supplies for weeks in advance, while Adora ties up loose ends in the Fright Zone so it can run itself for the over-a-month they’ll be gone. Catra had initially tried to get Adora to stay behind on the grounds that she’d run the place while Catra was away, but Adora reminded her that she  _ did _ have a capable second-in-command. Catra acquiesced, stating that Scorpia would take over her leadership duties and Lonnie would take over Adora’s exacting record-keeping. 

Catra, Adora thinks, had not truly tried that hard to have her stay behind.

Eventually, the day they leave draws close. Adora packs her outfits (she has three new soldier’s uniforms she’s acquired, and her two loose outfits, and her vest-- she leaves the white dress behind and it continues to gather dust in her bureau) and her dagger and toiletries, and she is prepared to leave. She goes to Catra’s room, where Catra’s few outfits are spilling out of her black bag, her weapons are strewn about the floor, her armor is neatly packed in the open chest, and Catra is nowhere to be seen. 

“Catra?”

There’s no answer; Adora’s not sure she expected one. She settles in to wait, and in the meantime, folds Catra’s clothes for her. She’d help with the weapons, too, but Catra is so particular about those. 

Catra returns, carrying her armor’s base layer and a chain tunic-- Adora checks; the chest is already packed. That’s unfortunate--

“This is for you,” Catra says. 

“What?”

“I had it made for you. I got the measurements when you were fitted for those new uniforms. I’d feel better if you had some, and chainmail has to be tailored to the user.” 

“Thanks-- are you expecting I’ll go into battle?” Adora asks. 

“I plan for everything and expect nothing.”

Adora takes the armor. “I don’t have anywhere to hold this-- my bag is too small. I’ll go ask for another one from Lonnie. I folded your clothes, by the way.”

“Thanks, dear,” Catra teases, but Adora is already dashing off.

...   
  


Catra is directing the loading of the ship; the person determining the logistics of arranging the crew is not Lonnie, not Octavia, but Adora herself. Adora had previously gone to Lonnie and gotten the information on how she typically arranged the crew (“Just figure out how many rooms there are, how many people there are, and then let them choose their own rooms-- it’s easier”) so she’s well prepared. She counts and discovers that this ship will be right at capacity as is, and rather than doubling another room, she chooses to place herself once again in a cot in Catra’s quarters. 

Catra seems unsurprised when she finally gets to her room and there are two beds in it. Adora starts to explain that some soldiers were already doubled, but Catra waves away the explanations and slings her bag off her shoulders. Rogelio and Kyle set the chest down, and Catra thanks them before they run off.

“Well, Adora, are you ready for your second campaign?”

“Yes!” 

Catra picks up Adora’s hand, then lines their shoulders up and pushes Adora’s palm. Adora pushes back. “You’ve gotten so much stronger.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment; just the truth. C’mon, put your clothes in the drawers. We have a week at sea.”

...

The difference between nine days at sea and three and a half is that the crew settles in for the journey instantly. 

Since there’s no coordinating with the mainland, and any plans are, by necessity, already made, all that’s left to do is keep up their strength-- and simply live. The food trends toward uninspiring, but there’s drink and cards and a whole lot of time. 

The delineation in Adora’s mind happens the first time Catra strolls onto the deck in just her smallest compressive top and shorts, which is two hours after the journey’s start. None of the soldiers or crew seems to think this odd. Adora herself has been convinced to leave her shoes behind, but not her flowy pants or shirt. 

“A sandstorm will reach us this evening, Lord!” someone yells from the front. 

“Thanks!” Catra yells back. She doesn’t like looking over the edges of the boats, so instead leans against the structure in the middle and crosses her arms, watching as Adora darts immediately to the railing. 

“How is it, Adora?”

“Salty,” Adora says, bringing her head back over the boat and spitting the salt from her lips. 

“Wow. I never would have predicted that.”

They stay out until the the salt air and concept of water chases Catra back inside, and they train together-- no, Catra trains Adora, and once Adora has been left truly exhausted and barely willing to stand up from the floor, Catra says, “I’m going to go spar with some of the Force Captains.”

“I’ll come watch.”

Catra in motion, fighting opponents that actually have a chance of matching her, is a thing of beauty. Adora treats it as her own personal spectator sport for as long as Catra fights-- three matches-- and congratulates her when she inevitably wins all three.

She’s graceful, and stunning and-- and-- all those other adjectives, Adora thinks, completely forgetting all those childhood vocabulary lessons when Catra flips her sparring partner over her shoulder and lands over his chest with her hand as his throat. 

“Yield,” the Force Captain gasps, and Catra pulls him to his feet as effortlessly as she’d put him on the ground. “Round two?”

“Not today. Hey-- set up an official bracket tomorrow, will you?”

“No problem, Lord,” the guy says. “I assume you want in?”

“Yes.” 

“And you, Adora?”

“Oh, I don’t think--” Adora says, but Catra is nudging her and grinning.

“You’d beat Kyle in a fight, hmm?”

“Kyle’s in the Fright Zone,” Adora laughs. 

“We have other Kyles. Sign her up,” Catra says. 

“Will do.” 

...

Catra has ceased the nightly death threats ever since Adora got the full story of Hordak; she tells Adora, “Goodnight-- sleep well.”

“You too.”

Adora falls asleep to the soft rumbling of Catra’s breaths, and despite how hard the cot is, prefers it to sleeping in her room in the Fright Zone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have Lore Today!!  
> \--This chapter was one of the ones I named before starting writing, but the name was "In Earnest". Once more chapters are posted, you will notice that "In Earnest" is the name of chapter 22.   
> \--After I realized that I was going to spend more time on sea travel than originally thought, I named it "Nine by Sea".   
> \--After writing way, way too many pages of Nine by Sea (I want to keep my chapter lengths vaguely comparable to each other), I split it into three parts, which is why "Nine by Sea Part 2" does not come directly after "Nine by Sea". Consider "The Tournament" an interlude.


	19. THE TOURNAMENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fight! fight! fight!   
> also WOW it's early

**19 THE TOURNAMENT**

Day two dawns with a sandstorm on the open sea. No one is allowed on the deck until the storm’s end, which makes it a perfect time to have their tournament in the dining room. The tables are all shoved to the sides.

It’s set up in a bracket, which means that in order to keep playing, players must keep winning. The fighting has, theoretically, been randomized; seasoned Force Captains and cadets here for their first taste of campaign are all mixed together. 

The fights will happen one at a time. Mats have been laid out; soldiers already ring them. Adora's first (and, she believes, last) fight is about seven fights in. 

There are people warming up disjointedly all around the room; a Force Captain and a senior soldier are bouncing in the ring. With breakfast done and any above-deck activities cancelled, the whole force is here, watching the fights. 

This fight is two and a half minutes long. Adora finds herself among those who have pulled benches to the outside of the audience and are standing on them. 

The next fight happens, then the next, and the next; so far, two soldiers and two cadets have been knocked out of the fights and the Force Captain and three soldiers will be continuing on.

Eventually, it is Adora's turn to fight. She’s up against a cadet, which is good; she wouldn’t be able to take a soldier. The cadet, Gemma, is younger than Adora and shorter, too. 

They step into the ring, and Gemma says, “Wrestling?”

“Sure, wrestling,” Adora responds. They’ve been allowed to choose what kind of fight they’ll have. It comes with all the associated rules and win condition.    
The first move ends up being Gemma’s, because Adora’s still trying to remember why she thought it was a good idea to participate in this tournament-- but hey, it’s just like practice but with more people watching; she can do this. Gemma gets low and goes for her torso; belatedly, Adora drops lower as well and attempts to not immediately get pinned. 

Adora’s training has paid off. What she could have done if she started as young as Gemma is-- but that is irrelevant; she gets Gemma on the mats and into a pin, but Gemma twists and escapes. 

There are cheers-- some for her and some for Gemma. It’s all in good fun. Adora finds herself invigorated by the noise, and grins as she resets herself into a more defensible position and Gemma advances again. 

Throughout the fight, Adora finds herself on the mats once or twice, and for terrifying moments she can’t escape, but somehow she  _ does-- _ and the fight isn’t over yet; she gets Gemma onto the mats and into a more solid hold. 

The crowd starts counting again. The rules are very clear and very simple: ten seconds pinned on the mat by the count of the crowd, and you lose. 

Gemma twists, but Adora moves with her motion in a smarter way, and she can’t get free-- ten seconds are up, and Adora releases her hold on Gemma. 

Gemma grabs Adora’s hand. “Good fight. I didn’t expect to get far, anyway.”

“Good fight-- me, either!” 

Catra fights a cadet, which Adora finds unfortunate for the poor cadet; the fight is over within thirty seconds. 

Adora’s next fight is against an older, experienced soldier, and though she puts up a good fight, she doesn’t make it out of the soldier’s first pin, and she’s out of the tournament. 

The winner of the tournament is not Catra, actually, who after defeating one of the Force captains and two senior soldiers, decided to fight a cadet without use of her right arm. She won that fight, but lost the next to a younger soldier who capitalized on the disadvantage by always circling her to the right no matter how much she turned. That was a dizzying fight to watch. The winner ends up being a soldier who’d been advanced young; he’s Adora’s age with three extra years of soldier training. He clearly earned the advancement. 

The tournament takes the whole second and third day of travel. They had stopped for their various duties at times, and they’d had to de-construct and re-construct the ring before and after each meal. However, once it’s over and the young soldier has secured bragging rights for the next few days at least, there’s still six days of travel left to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *looks up the rules for wrestling specifically so I can ignore them*


	20. NINE BY SEA PART 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi happy Monday!  
> cw: there's drunkenness in this chapter; nothing bad happens

**20 NINE BY SEA PART 2**

By day five, it’s noticeably colder in the day. It’s certainly a good thing; a three day march in Fright Zone weather would have been impossible. 

Catra takes to wearing the boots of her Hordak uniform around the ship as a type of strength training. She also has weights to lift, and exercises to do. 

“Are you going to march in the armor?”

“Not for the first three days. After the campaign starts, I’ll have the speeder, but not all the time; we need to save the fuel.” 

“So, yes.” 

“Yes, unfortunately."

Adora tugs on Catra's second boot and it comes off; she sets it down by the bedside rather than back in the chest. "Should I try wearing the chainmail around?" 

"Well, have you even tried it on yet?" 

"No." 

"Try it on! After all that work I did to get it made for you, Adora," Catra chastises. Adora grabs the bag she'd finagled from Lonnie before their departure and removes the chainmail.

"Put on the canvas first."

"I knew that," says Adora, who was going to do no such thing. She gets up to close the door before turning her back to Catra and changing shirts. 

"Here, I'll help you with the tunic." 

Catra takes the tunic and lifts it over Adora's head. It fits perfectly, as to be expected, she supposes. When she moves, her movement ripples through the little links. 

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be." 

"They  _ do  _ have good weight distribution," Catra says. "But try wearing it for hours." 

"Ah." 

Adora strides back and forth across the room, listening to her tunic jangle. "Hey, it's got the same larger links that yours does!"

"Yeah, that's standard for plate armor." 

"Oh, like  _ any  _ plate armor." 

"Yes-- my uniform isn't that much different than standard plate armor, you know." 

"How many of your soldiers  _ wear _ plate armor?" 

"None. It's become obsolete with Entrapta's upgrades. But her new armor requires training that you don't have." 

"Oh, okay." Adora stops in front of Catra and starts pulling at the shoulders of her tunic, and Catra stands to help her out. 

"Time to sleep?" 

"Sure." 

...

Day six dawns with fog, an unheard-of occurrence in the Fright Zone, and one rare at Manor Grayskull. Rain begins to fall-- proper rain-- by midmorning. Adora escapes onto the ship deck to stand in it until she's soaked and shivering. She didn't think this through, she acknowledges, but nor does she regret it. 

She is convinced by Catra that the rain has washed everything clean, and she merely needs to change back into normal clothes and hang up the wet ones to dry. 

Once that's done, the dreary atmosphere outdoors, visible through the ship's windows, combines with the cold to have Adora wanting to curl up by a fireplace. There are none on the ship, though. (At least, not recreational ones. She's still not allowed in the engine room.) Catra drapes a towel over Adora's shoulders to protect her dry clothes against her dripping hair, and it's almost like the autumnally cold days in Manor Grayskull that she'd spent with a blanket and a mug of cider or tea in front of the fireplace. 

"Do we have cider?" Adora asks on a whim. 

"We have water and alcohol," Catra offers, and Adora shakes her head. "Missing home?" 

"Just apple cider."

"First the fruit, now the cider..." 

Adora laughs. Her choice to switch her loyalty to the Horde, even with overwhelming evidence supporting her happiness here, was difficult, but as long as these little regrets stay small, they won't bother her...

Probably. 

Then Catra says, "You know what I'm craving right now? Those little dough things with the frozen sweet cream from the Kingdom of Snows." 

"Oh, I've  _ had _ those before! Those are good." 

"I wonder if they'd go well with cider." 

"Green tea,  _ maybe.  _ Isn't it a little cold for frozen desserts, though?" 

"Absolutely never." 

...

Adora doesn't participate in the drinking and rarely in the gambling; when Catra ends the seventh night actually  _ drunk,  _ Adora doesn't know how to feel about it. 

Catra is almost entirely in control of herself, but upon seeing Adora in their shared room, she walks to her and immediately sits down next to her-- practically on Adora's lap. 

"Catra," Adora says. 

"That's not my name," Catra says. "My name is Hordak." 

"Right." 

"Why didn't you come drink? It's fun!" 

"I didn't want to," Adora says. In truth, she can't hold her alcohol; no one on this ship needs to know that. 

"Aw. Is it something I did?" 

"No, Hordak, it's not. It's just me."

Catra looks somewhat dismayed all the same, and twists down so she is laying on Adora's lap. 

"What are you doing?" Adora demands, trying to push her back upright. Catra is surprisingly liquid: lifting her is like lifting water and it's not working. 

"Your lap is pretty comfortable." Catra pats Adora's thigh. "Must be all the workouts." 

"Okay, but why are you laying here?" 

"I can't sit up; I'm drunk." 

"That's-- not-- okay, actually, you know what? It's pretty late. It's time for us to go to bed." 

"If you say so. Can you help me up?" 

"I've been  _ trying  _ to," Adora mutters, but heaves again just the same. Catra is suddenly more solid, and she sits up. 

"Okay," Catra says, and rotates back to face Adora. "Time to sleep. Goodnight, Adora. Good work. Sleep well." She starts giggling. "I'll most likely kill you in the morning." 

"I'm sure," Adora says, and helps Catra stand. Catra seems to think she’s going to make the walk to the bed on her own; Adora’s not so sure when Catra tries to look at Adora instead of where she’s going and accidentally takes a step directly left, or rather, directly into Adora.

Adora maneuvers Catra into her bed. Catra grabs Adora's arm when Adora tries to pull away. 

"What is it?"

"I thought of something funny. I don't know if it's sober-funny or just drunk-funny, though."

"Well, what did you think of?" 

"Goodnight, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely  _ kiss  _ you in the morning." 

"Hm. Yeah. I'm pretty sure that one's drunk-funny." 

"But the words are so similar!  _ Kiss  _ and  _ kill.  _ Get it?" 

"No." 

"Aw."

Adora pulls the covers over Catra and brushes her hair out of her face, which isn't appropriate, she thinks, for a friend or a coworker to be doing, but Catra doesn't seem to care about that right now. 

"Goodnight," Adora says, and returns to her own bed and falls asleep. 

It's the next morning when she starts awake and is  _ amazed  _ that she pushed that interaction out of her mind long enough to fall asleep. 

_ Kiss _ her? That's what Catra had said? Drunkenly, and she'd called it a joke, but. 

Really? 

Catra calls her ‘darling’ and ‘dear’ all the time; that’s not new. She drops endearments on Adora like she breathes. Suggesting a  _ kiss,  _ though, that’s new. It had-- Adora might have briefly spared a thought for--

_ And beside _ s, though apparently Catra resides in some curious gender-free locale in Adora's mind, any potential...  _ flirting _ between women stays flirting, and Catra, when she isn't wholly absorbed by her impersonation of Hordak, is a woman. 

Catra wakes up, too, at a relatively average time for this current journey. She picks herself up and heads immediately out for a glass of water, but returns in short order.

"Do you remember last night?" Adora says cautiously. 

"Did I look  _ that _ drunk?" Catra laughs. "Sorry for the joke-- my drunk humor leaves a lot to be desired."

"Yes," Adora agrees. 

Catra seems prepared to go about her day as normal, and Adora can't justify acknowledging the joke now that Catra's already acknowledged it. 

So go about her day she does. Training, eating, trading her hated floor-mopping for dishwashing duties; it all goes seemingly normally. And why shouldn't it? It was just a silly joke Catra's drunk brain had made up. 

Adora certainly  _ isn't _ thinking about the joke through dinner, wondering why she's so  _ stuck  _ on it. 

"Adora!" Catra snaps, and Adora realizes she hasn't been taking in a single word. 

"Hmm?" 

"I  _ said,  _ did you ever travel north from Manor Grayskull?" 

"Not since I was ten," Adora says. "We'd gone to visit the Kingdom of Snows." 

"Did you visit many other countries as a child?" 

"A few, and always on a carefully planned schedule designed to give my mother interesting anecdotes to share with the other Ladies," Adora says. "I don't think I've ever travelled for a reason other than social standing."

"What a sad existence," Catra says. "I can see why you wanted to leave." 

Any protest against Catra's words no longer holds weight; Adora simply agrees. "Do you travel for fun, instead of conquering?" 

"I probably would have gone on at least a day-trip to one of my far villages by now, but I have a new guest." 

"I'm settled in." 

"So maybe we'll go on a day-trip soon."

Adora finishes her meal, and starts cleaning up the plates. 

"Did you ever take Scorpia or Lonnie with you?"

"On occasion. The problem with taking Hordak, Scorpia, and Lonnie away from the Fright Zone is that there's no one left to deal with emergencies." 

"Has one ever happened while you were away?" 

"Well, the power shut down once-- that  _ was _ exciting to come back to-- but no, nothing serious." 

"What happened to the power?" 

"One of the newer geothermal generators got destroyed-- and we found out that it had been placed on a geyser, not a vent. We just routed to the old ones and went with less power until it was rebuilt elsewhere." 

"I haven't actually seen a geyser yet." 

"I'll put it on the list for when we return," Catra says. 

...

The ninth day is full of activity. Everyone spends the day packing anything that was unpacked over the course of the journey: food, linens, clothes. They'll make landfall before night, but not before dinner; enough food is left out for a final on-ship meal. 

Adora finds herself inexplicably-- or perhaps not so inexplicably, given that she's doing Lonnie's job-- in charge of the whole proceedings. This is a chaotic task. She has a list of things which must be packed and a sense of when they must be packed by, and does her best to corral the soldiers. By dinner, everything but the dinner-things is packed, and Adora considers herself a success. 

Back in their shared quarters, Catra is inspecting Adora's chainmail. 

"It hasn't even met battle yet!" 

"You can't be too careful," Catra says. 

"So, you've checked your own today?"

"I have--" 

Catra gestures vaguely at her own armor, pieces now strewn across the floor. "I'll get it packed up soon. Do you mind helping with the clothes?" 

Adora agrees and takes in her little laundry line to begin packing clothes. Catra works all the way through her tunic, then packs it up, and finally packs her own armor back in its chest. 

"I'd say we're ready." 

"Good. Landfall in an hour." 

"Let's go on the deck and watch," Catra says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes I left for myself:  
> \--the dessert Catra is talking about is a version of Mochi  
> \--when I came up with the 'I'll most likely kiss you in the morning' line I very briefly, veeeerrryyy briefly entertained including it soberly in all seriousness, and determined it was too cheesy.  
> \--there are some super cool natural apocalyptic hellscapes on this earth, and the Fright Zone is inspired by one of them. also, you know now why it's unarable. because of the geothermal activity.


	21. OMENS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short one because the next few chapters are dense; happy Wednesday!

**21 OMENS**

As Catra had said, they land and regroup--all fleet-ful of them; an enormous force. It's hard for Adora to comprehend the sheer number of soldiers and Force Captains. Each Force Captain leads between thirty and one hundred soldiers; there are also three Force Commanders, leading groups of Force Captains. 

They hike all of a mile away from the beach and set up their camp. The camp goes up and there's no desk for Catra, no cots, and hardly any room: Adora and Catra share a five-foot-wide space with two mats on the ground and two sleeping bags on them. This is the price, Adora supposes, they pay for swift placement and removal. 

Larger items-- crates of food, and Catra's armor, and the like-- are either spread amongst the soldiers' payload or placed asaddle the speeders. Adora will be carrying her bag and her bedroll; Catra will be carrying that much and also the tent they share. 

The march begins the next morning. Luckily, the weather for the day is overcast, but not cold-- perfect for a hike. 

Catra walks somewhere towards the head of the pack, but doesn't bother to lead for this section of the hike. She and Adora become part of the force allotted to the first Commander. Force Commander Avalon is setting the pace for the entire group, and clearly knows what they're doing. 

Day one passes without incident. Adora helps Catra set up the tent again and, exhausted, they sleep. 

Day two is much the same as the first. The beach-moor environment is starting to pick up more and more stumpy evergreens among the heather as they walk; day three will probably put them in a forest unless they deviate their path. 

Catra still leads Adora through stretches, but avoids the exercise. They're getting plenty of that on the walk. Adora is more grateful, at the moment, for tasks that had sent her running around the Fright Zone than any amount of planks she'd done on the floor of Catra's room. 

Day two ends with Catra's "Good night-- good work" and Adora's "Yes, you too" as they both strip and redress; Adora is so tired she barely remembers to turn away from Catra to remove her shirt, and suspects that tomorrow she will be exhausted enough to not care at all. 

Day three indeed puts them in a forest through lunchtime, and then they break slightly south to regain the moor. The monotony is tedious, but there are soldiers' songs drifting up and down the line and, anyway, Adora is tired enough that she's spending the majority of her time focusing on one foot in front of the other. 

Adora's prediction also comes true when, as soon as the tent is appropriately set up, she removes her shirt while still facing Catra and redresses with no fanfare. The world doesn't stop spinning. Catra just removes her shirt too and steps out of her pants. 

Catra packs her clothes away, and Adora's before she even gets to them. 

"Avalon pushed hard today so we could start later tomorrow," Catra says. 

"That's good." 

"After you help me with my armor, though, I need you to drop to the back and stay with the cadets." 

"Sure, Lord," Adora yawns. Maybe Catra says something more; it doesn't matter, because she is asleep. 

Adora doesn't wake to the sunrise. Indeed, the sun is already well into the sky when she is shaken awake. 

"Time for armor," Catra says. 

"I dreamed last night," Adora says as they're fetching the armor, "that we were both at Manor Grayskull. You were a Lady, like I was. Hordak was invading-- not you, the old Hordak, except the mask  _ was  _ his face-- from across the moor..." 

"Manor Grayskull doesn't have a moor." 

"No, I know. And you and I had been fighting over, hm, dresses, I think. Something stupid. But when the invasion started I took that old decorative blade and went to defend the manor." 

"What did I do?" 

"You, you pushed me back into the manor and you attacked Hordak and killed him yourself. It was quick." 

"Wearing a  _ dress?"  _

"No, you were suddenly wearing a Horde soldier uniform, but-- ha-- I don't think even my dream self can picture you in a dress." 

Adora stops in her rambling to focus on the pesky side straps of the plate, then continues. "You killed him, but you were badly hurt. So I ran out and I  _ was _ in a dress, by the way, but my sword was suddenly like yours-- much larger and meaner. And then I yelled something and all of the invading soldiers were knocked out, and I held you, and you woke up. There was this light, like I had used some sort of magic on you." 

"What narrative," Catra says admiringly. "I don't know whether to take it as a good or bad omen." 

"A good one, I think. We  _ did  _ save the manor and make it out alive." 

"Any other dreams?"

"Only one that had Kyle and Rogelio ballroom dancing and shapeshifting-- I don't think that means anything, though--" 

Catra laughs. 

"What about you?"

"Oh, you know, I dreamed that I woke up, and you put my armor on, and then we began to fight. And as soon as the first clash of swords sounded, the dream started over. This usually happens before a battle." 

"Is it stressful?" 

"Not at all." 

"Good. Let's go," Adora says, giving the blue cloth one last tug. "You have a battle to fight." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think after writing this I learned that this was the third story I've written with a character named Avalon who uses they/them pronouns. 
> 
> Also, instead of doing any research about how medieval battles work, I reread Tamora Pierce's Protector of the Small series.


	22. IN EARNEST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, here we are, the chapter I tried to write five chapters ago.

**22 IN EARNEST**

Adora watches Hordak take the head of the trail of soldiers and, as bidden, drops slowly back until she is marching with the cadets. 

Since none of the cadets will be fighting, they are arranged almost a full mile behind the troops. They are in charge of equipment and food and all the things that the soldiers are not carrying now so they can do battle. 

After some amount of marching, the troops led by Catra happen across one of the five-man patrols Brightmoon is using to guard this northern border. The alarm is sounded; reinforcements will arrive from a nearby Brightmoon outpost in perhaps an hour. Catra mounts a speeder and so do the Captains and Commanders. They are all sharing duties of leadership and strategy, but additionally, Catra will enter the fray to strike down enough soldiers to keep up appearances. 

Adora watches the Horde force as they advance from the foot of the hill the cadets have just claimed as their own, and has a fierce internal debate over whether it would be healthy for her to stare obsessively at the diminishing figures, wondering how the fight is going. In the end, when someone brushes past her carrying a water container to the river and struggling with its size already, she puts the battle firmly out of her mind to help the cadet. 

They will spend half the day preparing for the soldiers’ return; it’ll take three times as long without the soldiers’ help. Some cadets hunt moor rabbits or vanish in the forest for squirrels. Others skin and cook the animals. Adora is, undoubtedly, hopeless with any hunting tools she might use, so she helps carry water and start fires and create miniature spits out of tree branches to cook their finds. In addition to the meat, they use the water (from the river running through the forest) and prepacked supplies to create biscuits. 

Adora might be, in essence, cooking and cleaning, but she doesn't feel domestic at all. All the cadets, most only a few years her junior, are wearing pants regardless of gender, and most have on the odd black vests and black bracers of Entrapta's armor handiwork. (The bracers can be activated to form shields.) Adora's own chainmail is in its bag, but not inaccessible. There's a rotating watch that patrols the outer edges of their hill. 

The cadets have all been schooled on what they should do; some have been on campaign before. Not a single soldier has been left behind at camp. Catra doesn't always show her hand in this way, but as she'd double-checked with Adora weeks before, there weren't enough Brightmoon troops within a seven-day's journey of this outer border that could counter her force. She'll also start another army nipping at a southwest border within the week; that attack will stretch Brightmoon's attention, but this northern attack is Catra's real focus. 

Catching a moment's rest before she's put on watch rotation, Adora runs her hand over the bag holding her chainmail tunic and sits down on the grassy hill. It's nice to let her arms rest-- 

Where is Catra? she wonders. Is she still on her speeder? Her blue cloth still pristine? Is the Horde winning? Are there casualties? They were so sure about the intel, but was it  _ right?  _

And then-- 

Could I be beside her one day? 

Adora shakes her head and slams her hand down onto the grass, hoping the sensation will shock a little of this mind-wandering out of her system. 

Could I be trained in the armor and green light shields? her mind continues despite it. Could I help? Could I watch Catra's six as well on the battlefield as I can in the command room? 

Adora stands and brushes the bits of moor-plant off her pants. Clearly she needs to be in action. Maybe she can take one more container of water-- though they already have many. Maybe she can-- 

Five people are crossing the field from the opposite end; they are her partners on watch. She joins them at a light jog, and they retrace her path right across the hill. They meet up with the other watch and trade binoculars, then spread out in pairs to predestined points. Adora narrows her focus to the watch. Jon, an older cadet her own age, is paired with her. They trade the binoculars every time their eyes fatigue, scanning the surrounding areas. 

Adora sees nothing of note. Rabbits. A squirrel. The battle in the distance, though she doesn't watch it for longer than it takes to confirm no soldiers are breaking away to come their way. 

And sooner than she thought, the watch is over, and she's handing the binoculars off. 

"You're Hordak's right hand?" Jon asks her curiously. He was on a different ship; Adora has no idea how much he knows about her. 

"Yes." 

"Well, no wonder they have you back helping out us schmucks," Jon jokes. 

"It's not like that," Adora admits. "You know how new I am, right?" 

"I'd heard you were Brightmoon and defected," Jon says. "Always figured you must've been good to rise the ranks so fast." 

"Truthfully, I think I was only allowed into the Horde because I had no skill to speak of. Hordak took a liking to me." 

"Really? So you  _ are _ like a cadet?"

"You'd probably beat me in a fight." 

"I'd take you up on that challenge, but hauling water has me tired," Jon says, and shakes out his arms for emphasis. "None of us can figure you out, Adora. To be honest, you might want to put some rumors to rest." 

"What kind of rumors?" 

"Well, a lot-- like, are you sleeping with Hordak, or just slipping him mild poison?-- but don't tell  _ me,  _ you'll just have to repeat yourself to every cadet here." 

Shocked, Adora does the only thing she can think of-- she pulls rank. 

"What gives you the impression it's a good idea to speak so freely-- to  _ gossip _ so freely-- about me?" she demands, mustering her Lady Grayskull voice. 

"Hey, uh, I'm just the messenger-- ma'am," Jon says, but he says it as flippantly as he’d slandered her. 

"It's 'sir'," Adora says, recalling how cadets were to refer to Scorpia and Lonnie. "If you're the messenger, then you can send a message back. I may not have years of fighting under my belt, but I have  _ rightfully earned _ Lord Hordak's trust-- and what's more, I outrank every one of you."

She is, of course, bluffing about the final rank statement, as she and Catra had never formalised her position within the Horde. But she's willing to bet that the only person there's a question of her power with is Scorpia, and Scorpia is so easygoing and willing to negotiate that there will never be a rank issue with her.

Jon nods and veers left when Adora turns right to reach the center of the hill. Adora watches him go as subtly as possible. He didn't...  _ seem  _ prepared to simply accept her. 

Adora suspects there is a challenge ahead of her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to anyone named Jon; this Jon is a jerk.


	23. RANK AND TRUST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the weekend, thank everything. Have a chapter.

**23 RANK AND TRUST**

Some soldiers are sent back as runners, with instructions-- the cadets (and Adora) are to advance several miles southeast on the moor. 

They do so. Slowly, because of their fewer hands, but the distance is far shorter than the previous days’ walks. Adora carries her and Catra's items for the hike; though it's double her previous payload, she's practically numb to the weight. 

Cadets don't march like soldiers; they swirl like river currents as they walk, exchanging walking partners on the minute like some kind of ballroom dance. After a mile of this, Adora realizes this would also be an easy way to have information curl around her without ever reaching her or any of the runner-soldiers. 

She pays them no mind and refuses to lean forward and rest her shoulders from the weight of the pack. Some of the newer cadets are doing that, and Adora doesn't begrudge them their relief, but knows they are visibly showing their weakness. 

She probably shouldn't have given up as much information as she did before she realized Jon had an angle. Catra tried to teach the open-heartedness out of her a little, but damn herself, Adora was still too-- 

(Catra called it  _ pure;  _ Adora laughed at that. Catra also said she appreciated that particular trait of Adora's, having lost it herself many years ago. Adora wished Catra didn't believe that, but Catra did.) 

They set up camp anew and feed the soldiers and themselves. Hordak, resplendent in his still-shining armor, tromps up to their tent and pops his helmet’s faceplate. 

"Hey, Adora." 

"Hordak," Adora says with a smile. Catra removes her helmet and releases her hair across her shoulders, and Adora sets to work.

"How was the battle?" 

"Well-fought," Catra says, "but this isn't the end. How was camp?" 

"As to be expected, I think. I was bored by the end of it." 

"Yeah, I remember keeping camp as a cadet," Catra muses. "I was young for a cadet, though. Likely more impatient." 

"How many campaigns did you end up on as a cadet?" 

"Nine." 

"Is that a lot?" 

"Yes! It was  _ just  _ because I was too young to be a soldier," Catra complains. She works her chainmail tunic over her hips so she can sit down before removing it. "Fighting is much better." 

"I'm sure," Adora says, but misses 'agreeably' and hits 'wistfully'. 

"You looking for a fight, princess?" Catra jokes. 

"You said it yourself. Camp is boring." 

"I can't believe you were ever a Lady," Catra says. Adora tugs the second boot off just as Catra finally manages to get the tunic over her head. "Should we go out to eat?"

"They might have finished most of the food by now."

"They know to leave some for me."

They leave. They eat, and then they crawl together into the little tent and change for bed, even though they still have perhaps an hour before either will be ready to sleep. 

"Is there anything else to do tonight?" Adora asks.

"No. Nothing at all." 

Catra starfishes across both of their sleeping mats. "Did you exercise today?" 

"I carried water." 

"Adora, give the hard jobs to the other cadets," Catra chastises. "They'd listen to anything you say." 

"Theoretically," Adora says, and then, "there's rumors." 

"Which ones?" 

Catra rolls over and sits up. "The one where I'm the illegitimate child of Hordak and someone-not-Entrapta?" 

"That's a rumor?" 

"I think it died down, but yes. The one where Scorpia is practically brain-dead and I use her for appearances, so I can have absolute power?" 

"Have they  _ met _ Scorpia?" 

"The rumor mill is as stupid as our stupidest soldier." 

"Oh." 

"Whatever it is," Catra says, "don't put too much stock in it. Let's talk about something else."

They do.

...

Adora re-armors Catra and wonders if Scorpia and Lonnie were, either of them, ever subject to accusations of sleeping with their Lord. She can't fathom it. Though Scorpia's clearly had a past crush on Catra, she's not Catra's type-- 

Adora has no idea what Catra's type is. Maybe she's married to her work, or something, and either way Adora should put the thoughts from her mind. 

Clearly, she needs to be carrying water buckets again to keep her from  _ thinking  _ so much. 

Adora tightens the last of Catra's armor and sends her, the last of the soldiers, to lead her crew-- and turns to find very little activity and Jon waiting for her. 

"What's this?" she snaps, already annoyed at herself from earlier. "Why is nothing being done?' 

"Waiting for orders, sir." 

So. This is her test. Adora stands on the chest that held Catra's armor. "You didn't need my direction yesterday-- are you, or are you not, learning to be self-sufficient soldiers?" 

"Soldiers take orders," Jon says, and his voice projects over the company. Adora wonders if this little--  _ twerp--  _ is alone in his dissent of her, or if everyone is secretly also thinking she doesn't deserve her position.

Fine, then. What would Catra do? Orders that can be carried out by the group as a whole, and nothing she has to micromanage. 

"Pack the tents and bedrolls," she says. "If you aren't working, find a tent that isn't being worked on and get to work. Go." 

Finally, they start to action. Adora looks to Jon, but he is already among the crowd. He clearly knows what's good for him. 

Adora orders a watch to start, glad they have strict instructions as to its timing and composition that come from Force Captains instead of herself. She then directs a group to hunt, a group to collect water (this time from the trickling moor stream), and so on until the previous day's tasks are covered. She resists,  _ several _ times, the urge to help at a ground-level rather than directing. 

The only time she doesn't feel such an urge at all is when she spots Jon having been left the unfortunate sole carrier of a water bucket. She holds his gaze while not moving an inch from her spot on the chest. He smiles back at her, as if  _ he's  _ won. 

Well.

Is her goal to make them regret forcing her to take this leadership role? Or is her goal to prove she is worthy of it? The latter, she thinks; she wants their respect, not their resentment. 

So, pushing back the vindictiveness which is, she believes, new, she takes the other handle of Jon's bucket and walks with him to its ending place. He needs to go get another bucketful of water, but she can't go with him. There's another group of cadets working on spits nearby; Adora singles out the one who looks like he's having the most trouble and says, "Elliot-- join Jon with the water." 

Elliot obeys easily and Adora jogs back to her chest. 

They end their tasks, except for watch-- to Adora's immense shock, given that she can't start tasks in parallel-- an hour and a half earlier than yesterday. 

But maybe it does make sense. No milling about, just people deployed where they were needed, and one person-- her-- to watch over it all. She hadn't lifted more than a single bucket of water all day, and so she contemplates doing some of Catra's exercises. 

Her watch shift is in half an hour. She can do a few sets of push-ups in that time. 

Watch is, once again, with Jon. Instead of being wonder-filled at her involvement in the campaign, like yesterday, she starts off on the correct foot. "Do I have your respect, cadet?' 

"You didn't need to earn it, sir." 

"I know, which is why I didn't ask if I earned it, only if I had it." 

"Yes," Jon says. Adora wonders if he's bluffing. If he is, she can't tell. 

"Respect for me is respect for Hordak's decisions." 

"You  _ have  _ my  _ respect."  _

"Aren't you the messenger," Adora says, not really asking. "So messenge, like you did yesterday on our hike."

"I didn't do anything on the hike," Jon says. Adora reads him the way Lonnie taught her in poker, and figures out that he's not looking her in the eye because of this lie. Lonnie would be proud. 

"Okay," she says. "I believe you." 

"Mhm--" 

"Of course, I'll be addressing your disrespect with Force Commander Avalon, rather than dealing with the cadets altogether, since you were lying earlier about being a messenger." 

Good. That one should keep him quiet for a moment while he figures out how to correct it; Adora scans the surrounding area with as much focus as she can muster, as her concentration had suffered from her talk with Jon. 

"I didn't mean disrespect," Jon finally says. 

"You should think harder before you speak." 

Finally, their watch is over. Adora hands the next pair the binoculars and stomps away, shaking. She can be confident about a lot, but not, apparently, with addressing a cadet's lack of respect for her. She hates it; she hates that she's vibrating with nervous energy; she has, she finally feels, an appropriate appreciation for what Catra must have had to do to gain power. 

Adora practices her punches for longer than she should, given that they're not really supposed to be exhausting themselves. (That in mind, tomorrow, she thinks, she will be rotating the water-carriers halfway through their duties, as that is currently the most tiring job.) 

And then, thank everything, the soldiers-- and Catra-- return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags for this chapter: minor pronoun fuckery, author is probably projecting


	24. THE CALM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday!

**24 THE CALM**

Adora tells Catra about her new position at the head of the cadets, but Catra's only reply is, "I did expect that to happen." 

"What, mutiny?" 

"No, you leading, you dummy."

"Oh." 

That night at dinner, Adora also catches a moment of Avalon's time-- in view of Jon-- but talks in an inaudible way about how everything is going well. That'll buy her until she and Catra go home in five days' time, which works just fine for her. 

...

The third day goes the same as the second, with the exception of Adora's water changes and a now completely silent watch. 

And just like that, she's now peerless among the cadets.  _ Damn.  _ Just like old times back at the manor, she thinks wryly-- 

Until Gemma finds her as she's punching the air and says, "Um, sir?" 

Adora turns. "You can call me Adora."

"All the cadets, or just me?" 

Adora shrugs. "Anyone but Jon, but don't actually get that word out. What is it?" 

"I was wondering if you wanted to spar, maybe."

Gemma is probably, Adora thinks, bored like her. Ready to move on, but lacking the skills to do so. 

"I do, actually." 

Just like Adora. And Adora may outrank her and her commanding officer, but she still fights at the same level. 

So they spar. 

...

The fourth day goes like the third. There's orders, and silence on the watch, and Gemma and Adora tussling off to the south of the camp. A few others start up practice as well. 

The runner-soldiers come and it's time for them to advance; Adora wears her and Catra's packs and additionally shares a chest with Gemma. "Thanks," she says, not talking about Gemma's help with the chest. 

"Jon thinks he's better than he is," Gemma scoffs. "He's weirdly popular but I never liked him." 

"I thought he was nice, until he challenged my authority." 

"Yes, he's... like that."

...

Catra's blue cloth has a minute tear, Adora notices that day, but Catra says it must have been from yesterday. 

"Take better care of yourself," Adora mutters, and leaves Catra to remove her own chainmail tunic as she gets out the sewing kit. One row of teensy blue stitches later, Adora hands it back invisibly mended, and Catra mentions that the Horde probably benefits from Adora's Lady-skills. 

"Maybe you should invite Ladies to be your personal assistants more often." 

"You're an exception," Catra says, "because you're too much of a dummy to run away when you should have." 

_ "I'll  _ invite some Ladies-- perhaps the Star sisters--" 

Catra laughs and shoves Adora's shoulder. "We're not completely drained of sewing skills in the Horde. Look: previous repairs."

Adora acknowledges the other lines of stitching on the blue cloth. "Okay, maybe I'll teach  _ you  _ to sew."

"You and what time?" 

...

They sleep, and for the first day since the campaign started in earnest, Adora ends the night feeling accomplished. Even better, she's no longer sore from the first day's exertion. 

Catra says goodnight and Adora responds with 'sleep well', and they both fall asleep easily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "since the campaign started IN EARNEST"  
> yes, this is why the other chapter was named IN EARNEST. 
> 
> I had to look this up; apparently there's canonically the Star Sisters (princesses) and the Star Siblings (from another planet) in the show: two separate families.


	25. APPEARANCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's your storm :) happy wednesday :)

**25 APPEARANCE**

Catra doesn't walk back to the camp they set up just shy of the fifth day's battleground; she rides a speeder. 

Force Commander Avalon is jogging alongside the speeder. One of their hands is on the handlebars; one of Catra's is on the other side. It's hard to tell which one of the pair is actually steering the thing. 

The speeder stops six feet shy of Adora and sinks to the ground. Catra steps off it-- with difficulty, it seems-- and Adora is by her side. 

"Hey, Adora." 

Catra pops the helmet with her left hand. Her hair is matted with sweat. "Don't yell." 

"Why would I yell?" Adora asks, removing Catra's helmet when Catra makes no move to do so. She next removes the blue cloth, and gets to work on the plate. Catra normally helps; today, she doesn't. "Are you injured?" 

"Yes." 

_ "Damn--"  _

Adora works quicker. She can't determine the source of Catra's injury yet. Avalon works on Catra's left side straps while Adora takes the right. 

Cadets and soldiers start milling, and Adora turns to yell at them to get back to their duties. "Can you walk to the tents?" 

"Can we get the plate off--" Catra says.

Adora gets the breastplate off and hands it to Avalon, then removes Catra's arm guards. When she tries to lift Catra's right arm to get at the straps, Catra refuses, so she works, slowly, around that. 

Catra's tunic is tweaked out of place. Adora reaches for the bottom-- 

"The tents," Catra growls, and starts walking; Adora follows. 

"How are we going to get the tunic off if you won't raise your arm?" Adora finally asks impatiently. 

"I'll live with it on," Catra says in frustration. 

"No, you won't. Avalon, raise his arms."

"No!"

There's nothing Catra can do; Avalon carefully raises Catra's right arm over her head. Catra obediently raises her left, biting her cheek so hard Adora's afraid she'll draw blood. Adora works her hands under the tunic and lifts. Catra squeezes her eyes shut while Adora works it off. 

"Catra, some of the links are deformed!"

"I know," Catra hisses. "Put my arm down." 

Avalon lowers it carefully. 

"What about the canvas?" 

"Cut it off me. It can be resewn." 

Adora fetches her dagger and draws it through the stitches on the left side. It unfurls, and she pulls it off Catra's right arm. Catra is left in her compressive top, leggings, and boots, and she doesn't seem inclined to work on the boots at the moment.

There is, on her right side, a rainbow bruise spreading over the base of her ribcage. Adora reaches for it, and Catra hisses, "Don't!" 

"Are your ribs broken?"

"Yes."

"Are you-- your lungs, or--" 

"Just the ribs, I think." 

Catra is doing her best to breathe shallowly. 

"Can you sit down?" 

Catra sits gingerly. Adora starts working on her boots, but tries not to tug too hard. "Hordak, I told you to come back in one piece--" 

"I'm back, aren't I?" Catra says. 

"Who struck you?" 

"Some Brightmoon cavalryman; I don't know. That's not the important--" she breaks off to gasp shallowly-- "part. I need ice. There's not a lot that can be done." 

"We’ve been getting ice from the mountains in the east, and I think the next trip is due in a day. I’ll go,” Adora says. “I’ll go today, and take the trip as fast as I can.”

"You will not. You're going to be Hordak." 

"What--  _ me?"  _

"Look. At. Me." Catra reaches out with her left hand and weakly clasps a handful of Adora's shirt. "I'm being  _ responsible  _ by not going back out there myself." 

"You--" 

There are suddenly many questions that need answering. "Why do you need to go back out?"

Adora anticipates the answer, and she's correct: "For appearances," Catra says, and then, "If you make God bleed--" 

"You're not a God," Adora says angrily, even though she knows what Catra means. "’People cease to believe in him’ or so your saying goes." 

But there's another question. "So,  _ how  _ long ago were you injured?" 

Catra doesn't immediately answer, which means the answer is not one that Adora will like. "I didn't do any fighting after I was injured-- well-- after I knocked down the person who injured me--" 

"Hordak..." 

"Okay, three hours."

Adora spends a second casting for something to punch or throw that isn't Catra, but comes up blank. "You  _ idiot."  _

"Appearances." 

"You said." 

"Is there food?" 

"Stay  _ there,"  _ Adora snaps. "I'll bring you a plate." 

...

That night, Catra lays down, and Adora props herself up and says, "What is it? Good night, Catra; good work; sleep well; I'll most likely kill you in the morning?"

Catra coughs out a chuckle and immediately groans in pain. "Don't make me laugh!" 

"Wasn't supposed to be funny," Adora mutters. "I asked Gemma the cadet to come by the tent in the morning to help with the armor. I figured you'd want some ambiguity as to my identity even among your troops."

"True; I do love a good mystery. It's going to be fine, Adora. Stop fretting. We planned for this."

"I didn't!" 

"I did." 

Adora groans and lays down and tries to get some sleep. 

...

By the time Gemma comes by, Adora has struggled into her wool and canvas, and has tied her hair into a knot with the hair ribbon. Gemma lifts the chainmail over Adora’s head and, at Adora’s direction, gets to work on the boots. 

“I hope our feet are the same size, soldier,” Adora growls back at Catra, who’s still prone inside the tent but observing through its open flap. 

“There’s a piece inside the toe of the boot that you can take out.”

Gemma fishes in the boot for the piece, and withdraws it successfully. Together, she and Adora work Adora’s feet into the boots, and Adora stands. The boots are stiff and don’t flex enough with her ankles; as she rocks back and forth, the metal brushes against her shins and then her calves. 

“I don’t know how the plate armor works.” 

Adora directs Gemma through the complicated straps. It’s unusual, being on the receiving side for once; she grows impatient. The arm guards are even worse, because there’s no way she can help with those. 

Finally, Gemma pulls the blue cloth over her armor and Adora lowers the helmet over her head. 

“How does it feel?” Catra rasps from inside the tent.

“You’re lucky there’s no blood on the cloth,” Adora says, still trying to decide. Her voice comes out at a deep growl; it’s... unnerving. 

“Hey, all my blood’s still inside my body.” 

“Hordak,” Gemma says, “you should eat before the battle.” 

It takes Adora a precious second to respond to the name, but she finally does. She’ll eat in solitude, then mount a speeder-- Catra’s told her that they’re not that hard to ride. The three Force Commanders will be doing all of the directing for this battle; Adora simply needs to be seen standing strong. Catra has told her she is  _ not _ to engage unless unavoidable.

Even with as simple a task, Adora isn’t sure she’s ready, but forces herself to eat nonetheless. Gemma begins to sprint back to where the cadets are gathering, but Adora stops her with a hand on her shoulder. From Gemma’s slight wince, she guesses she didn’t hold her gauntlet’s weight well enough. 

“Sorry. You need to take over for me today.” 

“What do I need to do?”

“Just tell them that I’m needed to help Hordak in battle. When my watch happens, find someone to replace me. Everything else, you know how to do already. Just snap at anyone who isn’t being productive.” 

“Yessir,” Gemma says with a grin, and runs off. 

“Good cadet,” Catra mutters from the tent. “Now go.” 

...

Battle is--

Hours of standing in a speeder, trying to make sure her knees don’t lock and she’s not leaning against her boots. 

Smelly. Like sweat; like blood. 

Noisy, and fast, and hot with bodies moving around her. 

Adora can barely keep track of its tide, but somehow the Force Captains and Force Commanders are. She swings the speeder in an arc through her borrowed troops, avoiding her soldiers but staying well away from the front line. 

Battle is wearying. When on watch, she had Jon to pass the torch to. Now, she feels on high alert, and there’s no chance of clicking off. 

The armor is heavy, but she’s trained for it now. The sword is heavy as well, but she keeps it in the sheath by her hip as if confident instead of unable to bear its weight for the hours on end. 

Adora focuses her all on staying unflinching. 

...

And it’s over. Gemma runs to help her. Catra informs her that a speeder has been dispatched for the mountains; it’ll be three full days before their return. 

Adora--

Misses how powerful she felt in the armor. But not the command, illusory though it was. She’d done her duty and it had felt almost hollow with her lack of substance-- of fighting, or really doing more than yelling a few phrases Catra had given her; meaningless phrases that the troops and Brightmoon Kingdom alike would eat up. 

She squats next to Catra’s bed, grateful for the ability to bend her knees like that again. “It’s done.” 

“Good. Hordak is taking tomorrow off from the battle. It’s not like I was intending to stay past tomorrow anyway.” 

“The medical transport is in three days,” Adora reminds her. “We’ll wait here until then. Are you feeling any better?”

“No.” Catra sighs. “I hadn’t expected to be going home on the medical ship.”

“I guess I’ll go back to cadet-directing for three more days,” Adora says. 

“That would be best.” 

It is, Adora supposes, in fact a demotion-- regardless of how unintentioned her single-day promotion had been. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon reading this chapter, my beta challenged me on the reality of ice surviving a 1.5-day trip from the mountains.  
> He did the calculations and informed me that it would require 20 tons of ice to survive a 1.5 day journey exposed to the air in 8*C weather, and the ice would be melting, of course. But this is uninsulated.   
> If a lot of ice is being gotten at once (someone is taking some sort of medical transport vehicle designed for this exact sort of thing) and it's all in an Ice Container, I can justify this journey making sense.   
> As to why the Fright Zone isn't taking better precautions regarding bringing ice-- ice is heavy as fuck; anything they can GET on the journey rather than TAKING on the journey is good. 
> 
> I've thought more about this ice thing than I ever meant to.


	26. TO ARMS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! weekends are meaningless rn

**26 TO ARMS**

Three days pass. Catra stays with the wounded soldiers. Adora tries very hard not to deviate from her day three and four routine by checking on her. There's little she can do. Catra wanders around when she's bored, and tries not to move her torso or right arm at all. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ it's time for them to leave. 

A huge overland transport vehicle-- which, Adora understands, would have given their position away had they not already given it away with battle-- crawls to the camp. It'll arrive back at the ship by nightfall, with all injured soldiers and medical technicians riding the vehicle-- and Adora. 

(It doesn't make sense for her to go alone.) 

Adora is able to help the medical technicians, simply as an extra pair of hands. Any soldiers who can’t move by themselves have to be carried on stretchers. Catra struggles to the vehicle by herself, then lodges herself in a seat near the front. 

They reach the ship after dark. This one is set up differently; it’s more communal, and less shut-in. It contains really only medical cots; there’s no captain’s quarters for Adora and Catra. 

By nature of the journey, Catra has completed two weeks’ bed rest by the time they’re back in the Fright Zone, and has only four to go before the medical technicians have promised her the ribs will heal. After that, of course, it’ll be regaining the muscle strength and mobility she’ll lose over the six weeks. 

Scorpia isn’t there to collect them from the docks like always, but Lonnie is there to check in all of the injured soldiers, so she’s the one to spot Catra shoving Adora’s supportive hand off her arm. “Hordak!” 

“I’m fine. Just a few broken ribs.” 

Adora rolls her eyes. “Right.  _ Just  _ a few. Lonnie, how’s the Fright Zone?”

“Everything’s fine. No freak accidents or power outages. One of the foundries was out of commission for a week, but we got it back online three days ago.” 

“Good,” Catra says. “Now, I’m going back to my room-- and warn Scorpia not to hug me, will you?”

“Adora can do that; I’m busy,” Lonnie says. 

...

Adora fends off Scorpia’s hug and her ensuing panic about Hordak’s injured state, and gets Catra settled back in her room. 

“Give me something to do,” Catra complains immediately. “I’m going insane.” 

“You want some calculations?”

“Please. Anything.” 

For the first day they’re back, there’s not much they need to take back over from Scorpia and Lonnie, but as work ramps up, Adora finds herself taking over many of Catra’s former jobs. 

Anything that involves looking at the screens-- constantly twisting is no longer an option for Catra. Anything that involves long hours of concentration, rather than Adora’s short sprints of tasks, is also off the table. 

Adora’s running back and forth across the Fright Zone, giving the orders Catra used to give. She’d normally consult Catra, but now if Catra tries to step in, Adora is more likely to snap at her to get some rest than listen. 

Catra confronts her in the command room as Adora’s pacing in front of the screens. Catra was always able to think--  _ calmly;  _ Adora fidgets and paces and generally--

“--makes me  _ anxious  _ just to look at you!” 

“I’m fine--” Adora says, trying not to look up from the screens. Her eyes cross slightly; she shakes her head to focus. 

“I’m not an  _ invalid,  _ you dummy, I just have a few broken bones and three weeks left until they’re healed!” 

“But I want you-- to rest--” 

“Adora, you can’t seize both our responsibilities like you’re doing. You’re burning out--” 

Adora doesn’t let her finish. “Yes, I can; what’s wrong with it? Don’t you trust me anymore?”

“You aren’t supposed to do it all  _ alone--”  _

_ “You  _ did--” 

“I had Scorpia, I had Lonnie, I had--  _ Adora,  _ step away from the screens for a moment,  _ God!  _ \--years of Force Captaincy--”

“I’m a Lady, Catra, I ruled my own manor for three years.” 

“Adora.” 

But Adora doesn’t immediately realize her mistake with the name. 

Why is Catra being so  _ contrary  _ about this? It’s not like Adora hasn’t taken her helm before, even her literal helm. Catra is injured and she needs to rest. Adora is capable. 

“I’m capable,” Adora says firmly. 

“No,” Catra says. 

.

.

It’s been a minute passed in breathless silence-- Adora doesn’t know what to say, and Catra isn’t saying anything else. Adora has stopped working. 

Finally--

“What?”

“You can’t  _ be _ me, you don’t  _ have to _ be me, and not everything’s a problem for you to  _ fix.”  _

“There’s-- issues everywhere.” Adora waves her hand. “I’m fixing them.” 

“Let me rephrase.  _ I  _ am not a problem for you to fix.” 

“I don’t--” 

“Take a walk,” Catra says. “Preferably an hour or more. Don’t come back here during it. And  _ don’t call me Catra.”  _

Oh...

Oops. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dusts off my unreliable narrator skills*  
> whooo this chapter was difficult to write but very rewarding for me


	27. A WALK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I opened my laptop to post this chapter, forgot my purpose, and started working on math. On a saturday.

**27 A WALK**

As  _ mandated  _ by Catra, Adora is taking a walk. 

Her previous flight-- wasn’t that so long ago? --had taken her immediately away from their rooms, but now she’s free to walk down the hall and to the bay door that will allow her outside. 

It’s not, strictly speaking, safe to be outside, but she doesn’t want to be in the Fright Zone right now. 

How  _ dare _ Catra? Just when Adora was thinking of them as equals-- to be  _ used--  _

And she thinks, How dare she? How dare she? on a loop, with no real substance behind the words, as she emerges onto the cracked stone and is blasted with the customary wave of heat. 

It’s a mild, nice day in the Fright Zone, or whatever the land above the Fright Zone is called, as far as these lands can be called ‘mild’, and Adora seethes in it. Kicks dust; grinds a clump of earth back to sand under her heel. 

A few moments later her walk breaks into a sprint, and then just as quickly, the oppressive heat has brought her back down. Fine, maybe some exercises; she unsheathes the dagger that now stays constant at her hip and runs through some thrusts and lunges until that, too, is too much in the weather. 

So she turns to the horizon and insists, “I was capable!”

It doesn’t respond. 

“I should have called him Hordak,” she adds regretfully.

There’s silence, but reproachful. 

Adora  _ knew  _ that the Hordak name was tied, intrinsically in Catra’s mind, to the command. Barring that-- not using someone’s chosen name-- how rude of her. 

Shameful.

“I was doing well. I didn’t need his help.” 

That they’d argued--  _ distressing-- _

“I’d thought we were a team! Equals!”

_ Equals,  _ she thinks. Then,  _ wait.  _

It’s too hot. She stomps back inside, and is greeted with a refreshing blast of Fright Zone temperature control. Catra should have trusted her. She should have trusted her. She should have trusted her. 

She should have trusted--

Funny things, pronouns, Adora thinks, and tries to stoke her righteous fury against her Lord but can’t.

_ She should have trusted-- _

Adora doesn’t trust herself not to be  _ diffused  _ by Scorpia or Lonnie, so enters her room and shuts the door. But Catra had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was to take a walk. Catra  _ knows  _ Adora, and Adora  _ trusts  _ Catra. 

Fine, then, she’ll go to that hallway with the green circle on the wall. Nice goal. Back-ways to get there. 

...

Back-ways means boxes left in an unlit hallway, and Adora stubbing her toe on one and biting back a yell. She hobbles into the light. Some unknown cadet asks after her wellbeing. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Okay,” the kid says, even though Adora was clearly short with them.

Adora nurses her leg for maybe three steps more, then pulls herself together and walks on. Again, she tries to dig at her anger, but it’s getting harder and harder. She wants to go back and... give Catra a piece of her mind, that’s what she wants. 

Yeah. A piece of her mind. 

...

She gets it. 

Sometime between the boxes and the green hallway, she gets it. 

Sometime when she realizes she’s been on edge for days, stressing over too much, while Catra tried to share some of Adora’s burden and Adora tried to stop her. 

Sometime when she realizes that the anger isn’t directed at Catra, and maybe she should have had that whole one-sided conversation in front of an echoing cliff face instead of a sound-drowning sea. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora says. 

“I know.”

“I... I really am sorry. For not listening. For not trusting you. For not using the correct name. I know you’re perfectly capable of command even with a broken rib. I shouldn’t have tried to take your job.”

“I’m sorry for being short with you. I could have handled that better,” Catra says. “And, I know I said you couldn’t be me-- Adora, all I need is for you to be  _ you.  _ That’s what I meant. That’s what I should have said.” 

“What do you need of me, then? Right now, I mean.”

“Well, for starters-- we’re not doing any more work today.”

“Okay.” 

Catra carefully works her right arm through some gentle motions that don’t tug at her ribcage. “Would you move a mattress into my room? I’m waking up in the middle of the night sometimes.” 

“I didn’t know.” 

“I didn’t tell you.” 

“What’ll help when that happens?”

“Something cold for it; painkilling tea.” 

“Sure.” 

...

Adora moves the mattress and fits it with sheets. “I was worried about you.” 

“Oh, I’m well aware.” 

“Oh.” 

“But you didn’t notice I was worried about you, too,” Catra says. “You are an  _ idiot.”  _

Adora finally smiles. “I like you too, Catra.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> normally im bad at like subtext, or any of the stuff we literary analyzed out of books in high school, but for this chapter only i managed to be deliberate with my word choice.   
> also, to clarify: adora is allowed to say "catra" "she/her" when 1) they aren't in a command context 2) it's only adora and catra, maybe scorpia and lonnie around


	28. POLITICAL CUSTOMS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the penultimate chapter, chapter 29 is the last chapter, and chapter 30 is an epilogue, if you want to be technical about it. 
> 
> happy monday!

**28 POLITICAL CUSTOMS**

Three weeks go by much easier with Adora  _ helping  _ Catra instead of trying to do everything herself. 

They don’t really fall back into their former rhythm so much as Adora understands her worth now, and acts accordingly; when Catra needs her, she is there, and when she needs Catra, Catra is there. 

...

“Remember how I said earlier that I wasn’t really ready to give up Hordak,” Catra says, so faux-casual that Adora initially assumes she’s reconsidering that stance. 

“Yeah.”

“I was thinking, actually, that we’d share the helm instead. I’d need to teach you to fight properly, of course. But the two of us-- leading the Horde-- we’d be unstoppable.” 

Adora chokes. 

“Adora?” Catra says, rushing to her side as she spits water onto the table. 

“No, it’s fine; I’m fine,” Adora manages, controlling her coughing. “I... am not sure I know how  _ political customs  _ work in the Horde.” 

“However I want them to. Why?”

“Okay. No. It’s fine. I was thinking of Brightmoon Kingdom again,” Adora says. “Of course things would be different in Horde.” 

Try as she might, Catra cannot get the conversation to continue past that point, and dinner is eaten that night in between strained small talk.

...

It’s the next day; morning exercises, and Catra suddenly accuses, “You thought I was proposing to you!” 

Adora falls over, which is only to be expected, she thinks. She scrambles about a foot backwards and Catra, thinking hard, is standing somewhat over her, resplendent--  _ sure, Adora--  _ in a sweaty compressive top and leggings. 

“In Brightmoon, you only rule together if you’re married, right?”

“I’m sure it’s the same everywhere,” Adora manages. 

“Well, not  _ everywhere;  _ I can do what I want,” Catra mutters. 

Adora shakes her head. “Of course.”

...

And then Catra says, “Well, now I can’t stop thinking about how my own politics work!” rather irritably. 

“Should have thought harder back when you called me  _ pretty  _ while you stormed my beach,” Adora says petulantly. 

“What?!” Catra says, and, abruptly, turns bright red. 

...

Adora catches her later. “Ignore what I said earlier.” (Breathless.) “It wasn’t connected.” 

“Sure it wasn’t.”

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Adora growls. 

...

And then, “Hey-- weren’t you  _ worried _ for me,” one of them coos to the other; it doesn’t really matter. They start pushing buttons. Adora calls Catra out on all the endearments; the flirting; all the times she’s been allowed to speak the name ‘Catra’ aloud. Catra calls Adora on her unending loyalty-- on her turncoat-ing-- on the time she organized the ship rooms into sharing the captain’s quarters with Catra. 

They can’t look at each other half the time, and it goes on for  _ days.  _ The vicious teasing; the inability to exist in the same room. The command stays effective as always, but there’s either no touch passed between them or deliberate, provoking touch. No in-between with them, it seems. 

If this is a competition, Adora will win. 

And so thinks Catra, it seems. Neither will outright admit what is happening. They play cards with Scorpia, Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle; as in one mind they take seats at opposite sides of the circle. Scorpia-- oblivious  _ Scorpia--  _ is glancing back and forth between them as if she can  _ see  _ a visible representation of tension between them. 

Catra does the-- the unthinkable: she bets, knowing how  _ bad  _ a player Adora is, a kiss on the cheek, like Lonnie had done once upon a time. 

Adora does the unthinkable too: she doesn’t lose. 

Kyle kisses Catra on the cheek. It’s amusing. (And almost painfully platonic.) 

And then Adora would normally settle in for the night after they’ve undressed (in each other’s presence; apparently Adora’s shame lost during the three-day march never returned), but she doesn’t. She, in her sleep clothes, confronts Catra (also in her sleep clothes.)

“You could have just asked.” 

“For what?”

“A kiss,” Adora says proudly, breaking their silence on the matter.

“I could have,” Catra grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D


	29. YOU COULD HAVE JUST ASKED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy wednesday!  
> featuring:  
> repeating the last lines of the previous chapter in italics so you know where this chapter starts.

**29 YOU COULD HAVE JUST ASKED**

_“You could have just asked.”_

_“For what?”_

_“A kiss,” Adora says proudly, breaking their silence on the matter._

_“I could have,” Catra grins._

“That’s what I’m saying,” Adora says, doubling down. 

Catra meets her gaze challengingly. After the _week_ they’ve had, Adora doesn’t have a shred of doubt that she’s right. 

“Fine, I will. Adora, kiss me.” 

_“That_ wasn’t a question.” 

Because apparently she’s not letting this standoff go so easily. 

_“Adora,”_ Catra repeats. “Kiss me.” 

She does. 

And it’s wonderful. 

...

Catra glares at Adora as she’s preparing to lay in her little floor-mattress bed until Adora says, “What?”

“Sleep here, dummy,” Catra says, gesturing to the king bed. 

“Oh!”

Adora sinks into the much softer mattress on the right side of the bed, and Catra lays next to her. They’ve both developed a habit of sleeping solely on their backs, but Catra’s hand which normally rests on the pillow by her head finds its way to Adora’s hair instead. 

Not to worry; in four days’ time they will be sleeping wrapped up in each other. 

...

Scorpia sees them the next day and says, “Oh, I’m glad you two are together now!” before they say a thing. Catra immediately demands if she has psychic powers, but Scorpia denies it adamantly and insists she’s just _good with romance._

Scorpia might have caught on to the way the tension between Adora and Catra has broken like a-- months ago, Adora would have thought _glass dish_ and now she thinks _firecracker._ The firecracker is more apt, anyway, with its bright result. 

...

Adora finds herself showered in endearments constantly. ‘Darling’, Catra calls her, or ‘beautiful’, or ‘dear’. It makes her melt every time. It had for a long time, she finally admits. 

They drift physically closer in the command room. Adora tilts the chart she’s working with so that she can still see it as she leans against Catra’s side. Catra does the same, meeting her halfway. 

Once, Catra mutters, “You really _did_ end up being the Entrapta to my Hordak, I guess,” and Adora vaguely remembers a past conversation. 

“Okay, but can we please put the names-as-titles thing to rest and just share the Horde Lord position, please?”

“As you wish, my Lady,” Catra says. 

“Lord,” Adora corrects. 

“As you wish, my Lord.” 

...

During one night, when Adora’s (Force Captain Catra’s) old room has long since been vacated and even the floor mattress removed from Hordak’s room, Adora plays with Catra’s fingers and says, “You rescued me.” 

“When?”

“Only the first time.” 

“I spared you, you mean.” 

“No, I mean you rescued me.” 

Catra says, “I think I saw where you belonged--” 

“You were right.” 

“I always am.” 

_“That’s_ not true,” Adora laughs. 

Adora quotes, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep--” 

“Where’s this going?”

“Shut up. Sleep well. I think you’re intriguing but I’m too much of a coward to say so to your face.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant!”

“Sure.”

“I don’t like your confidence. You can give it up now, thanks.” 

Adora pushes her hand into Catra’s face. 

  
Adora’s almost finally asleep when Catra murmurs, “Good night, Adora. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll be right here in the morning.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok!!!
> 
> haha you didn't think I'd just END that competition, right?
> 
> shoutout to Aries_Tenoh for the brilliant suggestion as to a line I COMPLETELY overlooked. I couldn't help myself. I edited the chapter to add it in. 
> 
> Epilogue goes up Friday!


	30. CAMPAIGNS: EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot? who the FUCK is she? I only know swordfighting. 
> 
> OKAY! I have a game for you, now that we're on the last chapter. Other than the iconic "Good night Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning," there are three other Princess Bride references and one Iron Man 2 reference in the story, none of which occur in this chapter. 
> 
> I'll reveal what they were in the end notes.

**30 CAMPAIGNS: EPILOGUE**

“Again,” Adora says, wiping her mouth. Her lip is getting puffy already. 

Catra growls and readies her sword. 

Adora  _ lunges  _ the way Catra cannot-- powerfully, now that she’s physically bigger, and with an extra six inches of reach-- and Catra whirls into motion, parrying the strike. Undeterred, Adora steps forward again. Catra makes a mistake she’s made before, of trying to bear Adora’s push rather than dodging it, and Adora gains a precious few feet of ground. 

“You’re so  _ strong, _ darling.” 

Adora laughs. “Flirting isn’t going to help you right now.” 

“I can dream,” Catra says, and pivots around her, setting her feet. She lunges and Adora parries easily; she lunges again and again and again and Adora parries each blow like she’s swatting flies. The deep-silver-almost-blue blade, the same one Hordak’s always carried, now looks light as air in Adora’s grip. She can even wield it effectively one-handed for hours; Catra can only manage sprints of that. 

Catra darts backwards across the room, catching her breath. Adora doesn’t move. 

“What are you waiting for?” Catra asks.

“You.” 

“You know, you have to attack to win a sword fight.” 

“I know,” Adora says, and continues to stay in place, rocking a little to keep her muscles from tightening. 

“I could just--” 

Catra drops her stance and sprints towards the door, but Adora’s about twice as close; Adora laughs as she blocks the doorway. “No!” 

“I’m allowed to play dirty--” 

“Are you?” Adora asks, and while Catra’s busy not concentrating on her stance, grabs Catra’s dominant wrist.

“Hey!” 

“Hey, yourself, you’re the--” 

Catra bats her across the nose, and Adora squints and recoils, withdrawing her hand. Catra chuckles and gets her sword back up. 

“Oh, you’re asking for it--” 

Adora drives her back to the center of the room, blow by blow, matching Catra skillfully. It’s-- it’s  _ everything she dreamed of,  _ sword fighting is. She’d taken to it like she’d taken to the dagger-- or maybe better-- guided by Catra’s excellence and motivated by Catra’s challenge. 

She’s grinning widely, and so is Catra, as they dance together, the sounds of metal clashing exploding in the room. Adora goes for a lunge again and finds herself once again blocked, and leaps backwards to avoid Catra’s sweep at her ribs. 

Catra gets her sword at Adora’s throat, but she’s tired enough that the tip droops, and Adora reaches up and pushes the sword away from herself, staring into Catra’s eyes the whole time. 

“Hey! You can’t do that!” 

“I just did,” Adora says, and finishes bringing her hand around as she steps closer, pinning Catra’s sword-arm to her side. “Got you.” Her other hand goes to Catra’s cheek.

“Hope you aren’t planning on using that on an enemy,” Catra snarks. 

“Not to worry, my Lord, this move’s only for you,” Adora says, and kisses her. 

...

They leave for Grayskull Manor the next morning. There’s probably something symbolic, Adora thinks, about her leading her first campaign as Hordak from the manor where Hordak had once captured her, but truthfully she doesn’t really care. It’s not like she had any sentiment to spare for the place past knowing her former people were now living perfectly fine lives without needing her command. 

“You could have lived your whole life here,” Catra says, once they reach the manor.

“What a dull life,” Adora says. 

“I agree.” 

The manor is long since refitted into a Horde outpost; there’s not even any lurid pink left in that one personal bathroom. It holds many more Horde people than it ever did Grayskull people, but far from feeling crowded, it now feels friendly. 

“I really didn’t utilize the space when I was in charge,” Adora muses. 

“Well, I never understood the concept of manors, anyway.” 

“I’m not sure  _ I  _ do, anymore.” 

...

Leading the campaign is not unfamiliar to Adora; she’s taken on so many aspects of the job already. 

Brightmoon fights hard for three towns buried in swaths of farmlands that don’t even seem to want Brightmoon rule. The multitude of farmers are more connected to those cities which are already under Horde control anyway. Adora cleverly shatters Brightmoon’s ranks and diminishes their army, and soon enough, the towns are under their control. The Horde soldiers check on the farmers, with Catra’s ordered oversight and Adora’s ordered demonstrative compassion in mind. 

Catra helps Adora out of her armor-- it’s  _ hers  _ now, though it looks identical to Catra’s, it’s actually a separate set-- and they lay together on the single cot in the middle of the commanders’ tent. 

“G’night Catra--” 

“Sleep well,” Catra murmurs. 

“Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

...

They go back to the Fright Zone after their job well done, and then, three weeks later, depart again, but this time purely for recreation. Adora insists on seeing the geysers that make most of the lands surrounding the Fright Zone uninhabitable, and also insists on taking Scorpia and Lonnie along, and they all head out on a day trip to see the geysers erupt. 

Then Catra insists on taking her to see some of the outer territories of the Horde, spread around the world. It’s wonderful. 

“See? No social standing; just us and the redwoods,” Catra says, staring up at the massive trees. 

“This is... magnificent,” says Adora, who had thought that Catra was exaggerating for sure. 

Adora’s wading in a jungle river while Catra watches with amusement from the bank and reads out some of the reports from the Fright Zone. 

“Oh-- this is interesting. The princess of Brightmoon wants to parley.” 

Adora takes three swim strokes to reach the bank and hauls herself out, then pads over to stand dripping next to Catra. 

“Go dry yourself off.”

“Ugh, fine.” 

Adora fetches a towel and returns. “A surrender, or an agreement?”

“An agreement, I assume, but I don’t want to necessarily dismiss it offhand. Maybe it’s time.”

“Sure, maybe it’s time.” Adora runs her hand through Catra’s hair, currently cropped short because she got angry at her failure to tie it in a knot one too many times. “You know what else it’s time for?”

“What?”

“Going back to the Fright Zone; we’ve got a country to run together.” 

“Mm, okay,” Catra says, and shoves her folders roughly back into the satchel, which she slings off to the roots of a nearby tree. Adora is drier now; dry enough, apparently, that Catra is willing to reach up and let Adora pull her off the ground and into a tight embrace. 

They kiss under the canopies of jungle trees, with the forest buzzing around them; excess river water drips from Adora’s ponytail and runs down her well-muscled back. Adora runs her thumb over a few of Catra’s scars. (They add to her tough image, Catra is fond of saying.) 

They kiss as the sun dips lower in the sky, and it seems like they’ve both forgotten about the agreement they just made to return to the Fright Zone, but the boat will wait for them. They are the Lords of the Horde, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!!  
> I'm sad to see this story go, but really proud that I finished it. As you might be able to tell, I left a little room for a one- or two- shot sequel, but now that it's fall and I have ~college~ again... well, don't take a sequel as a given. ~~why did I take this many classes~~
> 
> The references!  
> In chapter 2: this one is a Stretch (TM), but Catra says, “I’m not sure I would say such things if I were in your position," which is a reference to Humperdinck's "I would not say such things if I were you!"  
> In chapter 9: in response to Adora's "Oh-- Wild-CAT!" Catra says, "Yes, you're very smart," which is a reference to the Grandfather's "Yes, yes, you're very smart. Now shut up."  
> In chapter 29: as suggested by a commenter, I've added the iconic "As you wish" into this exchange between Catra and Adora: "As you wish, my Lady."//"Lord," Adora corrects.//"As you wish, my Lord."  
> And Iron Man 2:  
> In chapter 25: Adora and Catra work together to say the line "If you make God bleed, people will cease to believe in him," which was said by character Ivan Vanko in the film. 
> 
> Thank you all SO much for reading and commenting and generally following this journey. <3


End file.
